THE  NOVELS   OF 
FRANK  SWINNERTON 


THE  HAPPY  PAMIL 
ON   THE  STAIRCASE 
THE   CHASTE  WIFE 


7x    ,— 
3~ 


SHOPS  AND   HOUSES 

FRANK      SWINNERTON 


OP  C1LIP.  LIBRARY,  LOS 


BY  FRANK  SWINNERTON 

SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

NOCTURNE 

THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


SHOPS 
AND   HOUSES 


BY 

FRANK  SWINNERTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "NOCTURNE,"  ETC. 


NEW  XBir  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED   STATES  OP  AMERICA 


TO 

HELEN 

A  LITTLE  KEEPSAKE 


2133089 


L' inconvenient  du  regne  de  I'opinion,  qui  d'ailleurs  procure 
la  liberty  c'est  qu'elle  se  mele  de  ce  dont  elle  n'a  que  faire;  par 
exemple:  la  vie  privee.  De  la  la  tristesse  de  I'Amerique  et 
de  VAngletene"— STENDHAL. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER                      BOOK   ONE:    FRIENDS  PAGE 

I.  BECKWITH n 

II.  APPLE  HOUSE 33 

III.  Louis 43 

IV.  THE  PARTY 56 

V.  OVER  THE  SHOP 93 

VI.  WOMEN 102 

VII.  AN  ENCOUNTER 119 

VIII.  IN  THE  TRAIN 130 

IX.  VERONICA 142 

X.  DOROTHY 154 

XL  THE  BREAK 165 

XII.  VERONICA'S  BID 175 

XIII.  NADIR 189 

BOOK   TWO:    LOVERS 

XIV.  THE  REBEL 207 

XV.  BELOW  THE  SURFACE 220 

XVI.  THE  CONCERT 230 

XVII.  SEARCH 240 

XVIII.  A  NEW  FRIEND 245 

XIX.  PAIN 254 

XX.  BECKWITH  IN  THE  DOCK 267 

XXL  BECKWITH  ON  THE  BENCH 276 

XXII.  SUNDAY  MORNING 289 

XXIII.  SUNDAY  AFTERNOON 297 

XXIV.  SUNDAY  NIGHT    .           307 

EPILOGUE 317 

vii 


BOOK  ONE:   FRIENDS 


CHAPTER  I:  BECKWITH 


UPON  the  south  side  of  London,  about  fifteen  miles 
from  the  city,  and  upon  the  nearest  borders  of 
Kent  and  Surrey,  lies  a  small  town  which  combines  the 
characteristics  of  a  suburb  with  those  of  a  country  village. 
Tt  has  some  factories,  and,  near  the  railway,  many  poor 
little  ugly  houses;  but  the  town  itself  is  built  around  a 
really  beautiful  common,  and  the  houses  one  sees  from 
this  common  belong  to  a  time  when  building  was  rather 
a  fine  art.  The  country  upon  all  hands  is  wide  and  open, 
rippling  with  hedges  and  small  clusters  of  wood;  and 
Beckwith  stands  so  high  that  from  chosen  spots  one  can 
enjoy  the  most  lovely  stretches  of  green,  full  of  a  brim- 
ming vitality  that  is  moving  in  its  simplicity.  Within 
the  town  are  roads  of  various  widths  and  lengths,  some 
finished  and  some  unfinished,  bedecked  with  houses  of  all 
sizes;  and  upon  one  side  of  the  central  common  there  are 
a  few  very  decorous  shops  which  are  not  much  altered 
in  appearance  from  older  days  when  Beckwith  was  still 
a  remote  village.  There  are  also  a  church  and  an  hotel 
with  the  sign  of  a  rampant  lion.  The  railway  has  changed 
the  town.  It  has  given  it  new  classes  and  even  a  new 
district.  It  has  given  it  a  new  society.  The  station  has 
had  to  be  enlarged  and  its  sidings  increased  in  number 
within  the  last  few  years  owing  to  the  growth  of  goods 
traffic;  and  there  is  a  cluster  of  mean-looking  shops  in  a 
side  street  called  "Station  Road."  They  look  a  though 

11 


12  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

they  had  been  hastily  and  half-heartedly  built  to  meet  a 
sudden  emergency.  Between  some  of  them  may  still  be 
seen  plots  of  grassy  land  sprinkled  with  thistle  and  large- 
leaved  weeds  and  bearing  dilapidated  sale  boards.  From 
a  village  to  a  small  country  town,  from  a  country  town 
to  a  suburb,  Beckwith  has  progressed  steadily  in  the 
direction  of  prosperity;  and  has  forsaken  the  peace  of 
its  earlier  existence.  But  at  its  silent  heart,  away  from 
the  factories  and  the  railway-station,  it  remains  lovely 
yet,  and  a  home  of  sedate  restfulness  in  spite  of  every- 
thing. 

The  principal  person  in  Beckwith  should  be  Lord  Days- 
combe;  but  Lord  Dayscombe  can  hardly  be  said  to  be  a 
Beckwithian,  as  he  lives  most  of  the  time  abroad.  His 
lordship  pretends  to  have  forgotten  his  native  language, 
and  prefers  to  speak  a  rather  harsh  Italian.  So  Beckwith 
sees  very  little  of  him,  and  the  Vechantors  are  the  only 
family  in  the  district  to  dine  at  Dayscombe  when  its 
owner  is  at  home.  Apart,  therefore,  from  this  aristocrat, 
the  good  society  of  Beckwith  consists  of  the  Vechantors, 
who  are  an  old  family  of  some  standing,  the  Derricks, 
the  Misses  Ferris,  Mrs.  Jebolt  and  her  valetudinarian  hus- 
band, the  Dauntons,  the  Grenvilles,  the  Dumaresques,  the 
Peabodys,  Miss  Lampe,  old  Mr.  Chator,  Mrs.  Dunton, 
the  Hugheses,  the  Deadwoods,  the  Toppetts,  the  Greens, 
the  Marches,  the  Corntofts,  and  Mrs.  Callum.  The  Top- 
pets  are  the  Vicar  and  his  wife  and  three  children — one 
of  whom  wears  round  goggling  spectacles,  one  of  whom 
has  a  sort  of  bit  in  her  mouth  to  restrain  wildly-growing 
teeth,  and  one  of  whom  obtrudes  no  defect  at  all  upon  the 
beholding  eye.  Kindly  persons  suppose  the  Toppetts  to 
have  profited  by  experience,  because  the  perfect  Toppett 
is  the  youngest.  Mrs.  Jebolt,  however,  cannot  help  won- 
dering what  secret  malady  the  child  suffers  from.  It  is  a 
constant  preoccupation  of  hers — one  of  the  things  that 


BECKWITH  ia 

animate  her  to  an  extreme  point.  Fortunately  Mrs.  Jebolt 
is  such  a  good-natured  person  that  nobody  supposes  she 
means  what  she  says,  and  so  the  young  Toppett  is  every- 
where treated  as  relatively  sound.  Only  Mrs.  Jebolt 
puts  searching  questions. 

Below  these  families,  who  are  known  to  the  surround- 
ing poor  as  "gentry,"  there  is  a  slightly  lower  order  of 
society,  mostly  Noncomformists,  very  good  and  kind, 
but  not  especially  remarkable.  They  have  their  own 
events  and  visitings;  but  they  do  not  freely  mix  with 
the  class  above.  In  a  class  below  these  are  the  trades- 
people. Lowest  of  all  comes  the  uncouth  throng  that 
labours  locally.  It  is  a  very  matter-of-fact  class,  restless 
and  improvident,  and  is  just  upon  the  point  of  being  spoilt 
by  what  it  calls  "pleasure,"  which  consists  in  the  expendi- 
ture of  all  surplus  earnings  upon  cheap  entertainments, 
from  kinemas  at  a  larger  town  three  miles  away,  to  ciga- 
rettes, brooches,  etc.,  purchased  in  Station  Road.  The 
town  is  on  the  whole  happy  and  contented;  but  as  its 
population  increases  it  is  losing  corporate  sense.  It  is 
less  individualistic  than  indifferent.  The  classes  are 
becoming  very  clearly  separated,  and  the  feeling  of 
common  interest  in  the  well-doing  of  Beckwith  is 
diminishing.  This  is  because  the  majority  of  ordi- 
nary women  are  egoists  in  good-fortune,  and  only  share 
their  sorrows. 

In  the  town  are  shops  of  various  kinds,  in  addition 
to  those  lined  so  prettily  upon  one  side  of  the  common. 
There  is,  in  the  wider  road  leading  away  from  the  green, 
a  series  of  quite  large  shops,  and  these  large  shops  are 
the  ones  at  which  the  real  Beckwithians  deal.  No  real 
Beckwithian  has  anything  sent  from  the  Stores,  for  the 
real  Beckwithian  preserves  his  ancient  motto  of  noblesse 
oblige.  So  while  there  is  a  little  old  chemist's  shop,  and 
the  post-office,  and  a  butcher's,  and  a  baker's,  overlook- 


14  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

ing  the  common,  Peel's,  the  big  grocer's  shop,  is  in  the 
High  Street,  and  so  is  the  jeweller's,  and  the  oilman's, 
and  the  bookseller's  and  stationer's.  They  are  large 
shops,  well-stocked,  modern;  their  prices  are  carefully 
measured,  and  their  prosperity  seems  to  be  all  that  can 
be  desired. 

Out  of  the  High  Street  are  roads  of  medium-sized 
houses,  rather  new,  with  gravelled  paths  and  lawns  and 
geraniums  in  front  of  them.  These  are  inhabited  by  the 
second-class  people  of  Beckwith.  They  are  red  houses 
with  slate  roofs,  and  the  points  of  the  roofs  are  decorated 
with  little  red  tiles  like  cockscombs.  The  best  houses  are 
round  the  common,  including  some  of  the  smallest,  which 
contain,  in  a  few  cases,  only  seven  or  eight  rooms;  but 
there  are  one  or  two  at  a  distance  from  the  common,  and 
Miss  Lampe  even  lives  quite  near  the  railway-station,  so 
that  she  knows  altogether  by  heart  what  trains  are  caught 
by  what  residents  in  the  town.  This  situation  is  very 
fortunate  for  Miss  Lampe,  who  passionately  cares  for 
such  facts  and  is  dependent  upon  them  for  her  casual 
conversation. 

ii 

Naturally  the  society  of  Beckwith,  cut  off  from  any 
general  communication  with  the  outer  world,  is  very 
close:  its  moral  scrutiny,  the  surest  safeguard  of  man- 
ners in  the  modern  universe,  is  so  exacting  that  any  slight- 
est infringement  is  observed  and  quietly  punished.  There 
is  no  account  made  of  "I  didn't  know."  "Didn't  know 
was  made  to  know,"  as  somebody  once  said.  These  la- 
dies are  Roman — or  is  it  Spartan? — in  their  severity  to 
each  other.  One  would  think  that  a  quite  special  piece 
of  righteousness  had  been  dealt  out  to  each  of  them  at 
birth  by  a  benign  fairy.  They  do  not  fo  much  love  one 
another  as  guard  one  another.  In  no  place  is  the  "cut" 


BECKWITH  15 

more  noticeable,  the  chilling  of  welcome  more  adroitly 
managed.  Ah,  the  guilty  know!  All  the  ladies  are 
very  sensitive.  The  cut  accidental  is  followed  with  ap- 
palling speed  by  the  retaliatory  cut  deliberate.  It  takes 
quite  a  long  time  to  be  quite  sure  whether  the  accident  is 
altogether  forgiven ;  and  a  repetition  will  certainly  involve 
ignominious  exclusion  from  more  than  one  house  in  the 
neighbourhood.  The  wrong  thing  said  or  done  flies 
like  ill-tidings  from  lip  to  lip,  from  eye  to  eye,  very 
secretly,  very  finally.  Living  in  Beckwith  is  like  living 
upon  glass.  It  is  both  slippery  and  brittle. 

The  cause  of  this  is  that  when  one  lives  in  Beckwith 
one  has  very  little  wider  life.  The  consideration  in  which 
one  is  held  by  one's  neighbours  (in  default  of  special 
talent,  which  is  rare  in  Beckwith,  and  which  raises  a  bar- 
rier of  constraint)  is  the  only  consideration  which  one 
can  enjoy.  It  must  therefore  be  conserved,  augmented, 
by  more  or  less  adroit  revelations  made  in  talk.  And 
the  uplifting  of  one's  own  importance  brings  about,  in 
one's  acquaintance,  the  desire  for  equal  uplif tings  of 
importance.  Badly  managed,  it  may  estrange  them.  In- 
considerate exaggeration  is  known  as  "swank."  Swank 
is  met  by  swank,  coldness,  satirical  gossip.  .  .  .  One 
speaks,  let  us  for  example  say,  of  an  eminent  person 
whom  one  has  encountered  by  happy  accident;  and  this 
suit  is  grimly  followed.  One  says,  perhaps,  "I  went  into 
that  delightful  place  in  Panton  Street — don't  you  know 
it?  I  thought  everybody  knew  it! — and  saw  Bubb,  the 
ex-Cabinet  Minister,  simply  gorging  himself  on  steak 
and  onions."  Hardly  has  one  spoken  before  Mrs.  Gren- 
ville  blurts  out:  "How  nice!  I  remember  being  intro- 
duced to  the  Bishop  of  Tanganwego  one  day  when  I  was 
in  town.  At  the  Berkeley.  It  isn't  often  I  go.  ...  One 
really  is  so  tied  when  one  lives  in  the  country.  Such  a  nice 
little  man.  He  told  me  quite  a  lot  of  things  about  his 


16  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

.  .  .  It  was  delightful!"  One  sees  that  the  connection 
is  supplied,  not  by  any  peculiarity  in  diet,  but  solely  by 
the  worldly  distinction  of  the  person  named.  This  has  its 
further  illustrations,  steadily  rising  in  a  scale  of  notability 
or  affluence.  A  canon  is  eclipsed  by  a  dean,  a  cartoonist 
by  an  R.  A.  Higher  than  a  dean  or  an  R.A.  one  can 
hardly  go  in  Beckwith.  A  visit  to  Paris  or  Paris-Plage 
is  less  effective  than  a  holiday  in  the  Ardennes,  the  Jura, 
Italy.  .  .  .  Any  pretence  to  foreign  experience,  there- 
fore, is  instantly  countered  or  exceeded.  It  is  very 
quietly  done — not  noisily,  as  it  would  be  by  flat-dwellers 
or  the  wives  of  military  men — but  it  is  rather  bitter; 
and  afterwards  the  justice-administering  wives  tell  their 
husbands,  or  the  friends  their  friends.  "I  really  had  to 
tell  her  we'd  been  to  Genoa,  and  had  met  Lady  Bander- 
mere.  .  .  .  She  was  so  unspeakably  intolerable  with  her 
tales  of  Trouville  .  .  .  the  idea !  Nasty  common  place ! 
Everybody  goes  there!" 

But  these  stirs  are  momentary.  They  are  accidental; 
merely  the  challenging  pummelling  spirit  which  produces 
the  survival  of  the  fittest.  What  wit  does  in  circles  where 
wit  is  current  coin,  such  bludgeon  rivalry  does  in  Beck- 
with. One  settles  down,  also,  to  a  very  fair  system  of 
free  give  and  take,  because  of  course  the  exact  degree  of 
consideration  due  to  each  person  is  bound  sooner  or 
later  to  be  established.  It  may  vary  with  breeze  or 
tide;  but  its  fundamental  laws  are  unchangeable.  Thus 
and  thus  is  the  immutable  order;  and  if  one  were  alto- 
gether too  exclusive,  and  demanded  excessive  respect, 
without  repaying  it  in  kind,  there  would  be  no  social 
life  in  Beckwith  at  all.  Besides,  there  are  flatteries. 
.  .  .  One  is  gladly  deferred  to  about  Italy  (whether 
song-birds  are  to  be  heard  there  or  whether  they  are 
killed  for  food)  if  one  is  ready  to  waive  a  right  to  speak 
of  the  social  life  of  bishops.  If  one  accepts  Mrs. 


BECKWITH  17 

Callum's  authority  upon  the  moral  defects  of  authors — 
this  is  a  very  special  topic  indeed — Mrs.  Callum  will  be 
ready  to  interrupt  any  conversation  whatever  with  "Oh 
— Russia.  You  must  ask  Mrs.  Corntoft  about  Russia. 
Her  sister's  lived  there." 

The  Vechantors  have  no  need  of  all  this  measuring, 
which  is  common  to  almost  all  the  residents  in  Beckwith ; 
but  then  perhaps  the  Vechantors  are  rather  apart  from 
the  generality  of  their  neighbours.  They  have  always 
lived  in  Beckwith;  and  they  are  well-to-do,  and  have  no 
tracks  to  cover,  because  they  have  always  been  well-to-do 
and  extremely  domesticated.  They  are  so  artlessly  sure 
of  being  first  in  the  town  that  they  do  not  seem  at  any 
time  to  be  on  the  watch  for  those  slights  and  favouritisms 
that  become  important  in  any  small  community.  The 
others  are  not  ridiculous  or  merely  foolish.  They  are 
reacting  normally  to  their  environment,  to  the  intensive 
culture  which  is  produced  by  any  form  of  human  segrega- 
tion. They  suffer  with  a  kind  of  dull  and  aching  forti- 
tude from  their  limited  physical  horizons  and  from  that 
instinctive  human  craving  for  something  that  will  assure 
them  of  their  right  to  live.  It  is  a  form  of  ill-breeding, 
but  it  is  pathetic  rather  than  contemptible.  It  arises 
from  overmuch  time  unoccupied  or  falsely  occupied  with 
trivial  and  inessential  things,  which  gives  opportunity 
for  morbid  thoughts;  and  it  arises  from  that  passionate 
desire  felt  by  every  individual  for  love.  The  desire  to 
be  loved,  when  it  sours,  becomes  the  desire  to  be  con- 
sidered. If  we  are  not  by  nature  important  to  others, 
as  few  can  be,  we  become  important  to  ourselves,  and 
that  kind  of  egoism  is  so  little  based  upon  self-reliance 
that  it  suffers  from  a  kind  of  eating  diabetes,  so  constant 
is  its  need  for  nourishment.  Nearly  all,  but  not  quite 
all,  of  the  women  in  Beckwith  suffer  from  this  aimless- 
ness  of  life,  this  insatiable  egomania.  Some  of  the  men 


r 


18  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

are  empoisoned  with  it.  Several  women  and  most  of 
the  men  are  free  from  all  such  trouble.  The  Vechantors, 
who  pronounce  the  "ch"  as  if  it  were  "k,"  and  accent 
the  middle  syllable  of  their  name,  are  altogether  above 
it.  They  appear  to  live  a  kind  of  life  apart,  a  humane 
life,  which  is  nourished  from  within. 


in 


The  present  occupants  of  Apple  House  are  Emanuel 
Vechantor  and  his  wife  and  son.  Emanuel's  grandfather 
began  life  in  the  house  of  certain  wholesale  importers  of 
tea.  He  increased  his  power  in  that  business  and  ulti- 
mately controlled  its  fortunes.  When  he  was  able  to 
do  so  he  sold  the  business  and  invested  the  greater  part 
of  his  money  in  a  newly-formed  mercantile  bank  which 
he  also  made  a  success;  and  it  is  from  this  bank  that 
subsequent  Vechantors  have  drawn  their  ample  subsis- 
tence. The  grandfather  had  a  younger,  brother,  a  fail- 
ure, who  disappeared  from  polite  society,  and  was  re- 
ported to  have  emigrated.  He  was  supposed  to  be  dead 
long  before  he  did  die — the  wish  that  he  might  be  dead 
assisting  to  bury  him  alive;  but  that  was  years  ago,  and 
nobody  has  thought  about  him  for  fifty  or  sixty  years. 
It  has  always  been  felt  that  he  was  best  forgotten.  Ac- 
cordingly it  may  be  said  that  from  Stephen  Vechantor 
—the  grandfather — there  has  descended  the  sole  line  of 
Vechantors;  and  the  family  has  been  so  unprolific  that 
both  Emanuel  and  his  father  were  only  sons.  This  rule 
applies  also  to  the  present  generation,  for  Emanuel  has 
no  more  than  two  children.  Beatrice,  the  elder,  is  mar- 
ried; and  Louis,  after  an  elaborate  education  by  private 
tutors  and  afterwards  at  Oxford,  is  the  active  partner 
in  the  business  of  Vechantor  &  Co.  His  father  visits 
the  office  once  a  week :  Louis  goes  every  day. 


BECKWITH  19 

The  Vechantors  live  at  the  house  that  hides  behind 
large  gates  at  the  extreme  western  edge  of  the  common. 
It  runs  beside  the  road  which  goes  west,  towards  the 
Kentish  main  roads;  but  it  is  protected  by  a  beautiful 
old  red  wall,  ivy  grown  and  adorable.  Through  the 
large  gates  one  sees  from  the  common's  edge  a  garden 
opening  and  spreading  beyond  the  first  lawn  upon  the 
right  of  the  house — an  apparently  limitless  wealth  of 
green,  studded  in  summer  time  with  a  glorious  jewel-like 
mass  of  crimson  rambler.  The  front  door  is  at  the  left 
of  the  entry  to  the  garden :  it  reveals  a  lofty  porch  and 
a  wide  hall  beyond,  which  suggests  to  the  caller  comfort 
inexpressible,  and  which  is  warm  in  winter  and  deli- 
ciously  cool  in  summer  time. 

Everything  is  very  quiet  in  the  house.  Quiet  as  Beck- 
with  is  in  general  there  is  a  calm  about  Apple  House 
which  one  cannot  help  noticing.  The  floors  are  thickly 
carpeted,  so  that  no  footfall  is  heard.  When  the  clock 
in  the  drawing-room  chimes  dimly  the  silver  notes  throb 
the  air  and  echo  for  a  perceptible  time  after  they  have 
been  struck.  The  grandfather  clock  in  the  entrance  hall 
is  hardly  heard :  it  seems  to  tell  the  hours  to  itself,  like 
a  parrot  repeating  inaudible  conversation.  The  house, 
besides  being  very  quiet,  is  very  spacious  and  beautiful. 
The  Vechantors  have  always  been  people  of  taste,  it 
seems;  for  the  furnishing  of  the  house  contains  nothing 
that  could  distress  even  the  most  modern  eye.  That 
is  a  thing  which  Louis  had  observed  at  once  on  returning 
from  Oxford.  Fresh  from  the  fashion  of  the  world, 
and  from  a  society  of  which  fashion  is  exigent,  he  was 
surprised  to  find  that  his  own  home  was  not  grotesque. 
After  all,  the  Vechantors,  it  might  have  occurred  to  him 
to  think,  as  the  Duke  of  Plaza-Toro  did  upon  another 
occasion,  do  not  follow  fashions :  they  lead  them !  The 
truth  being  that  they  take  no  notice  of  them. 


20  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Living  as  they  do,  in  an  assured  position,  without 
cares  of  any  galling  kind,  the  Vechantors  feel  none  of 
the  frenetic  anxiety  about  "standing"  which  riddles  the 
lives  of  their  neighbours.  It  has  not  occurred  to  them, 
for  so  many  years,  to  think  of  improving  their  social 
position,  that  they  have  little  sympathy  with  those  who 
are,  socially,  standing  upon  tiptoe.  It  can  never  occur 
to  them  to  envy  anybody,  and  they  are  much  too  well- 
bred  to  wish  to  make  other  people  fall  into  their  ways, 
or  imitate  them,  in  order  that  they  may  dominate  a 
clique.  They  are  at  Beckwith;  they  are  kind  and  cour- 
teous; Mrs.  Vechantor  has  no  hostilities  or  jealousies. 
She  leads  a  simple,  happy  life.  Her  husband  leads  a 
life  that  is  rather  less  happy  although  it  is  almost  equally 
simple.  Her  daughter  Beatrice,  who  lives  with  her  hus- 
band in  Hertfordshire,  forty  miles  away,  leads  a  life 
that  is  ever  so  much  less  simple  and  that  might  be  a 
very  happy  one  if  her  restless  temperament  allowed. 
The  life  of  Louis,  Mrs.  Vechantor's  only  son,  and  the 
peculiarities  of  his  character,  are  to  be  described  at  more 
length  in  the  pages  that  follow. 


IV 


Louis  Vechantor,  standing  upon  this  Autumn  evening 
before  the  drawing-room  fire,  waiting  for  the  dinner- 
gong,  seems  to  his  mother  to  be  rather  like  what  she 
remembers  her  husband  to  have  been  at  the  same  age. 
He  is  rather  tall,  extremely  dark,  and  he  wears  pince-nez 
and  a  small  black  moustache.  His  dress — the  Vechan- 
tors dress  for  dinner  every  evening,  unless  they  have 
certain  visitors — is  that  of  a  young  man  of  some  pre- 
tensions to  fashion.  His  hair  is  glossy  and  black,  his 
nose  long  and  thin,  his  mouth  moderately  small  and 
gravely  closed.  His  face  is  thin  and  pale,  but  his  body 


BECKWITH  21 

is  well  developed  and  full  of  grace.  He  is  between 
twenty-six  and  twenty-seven.  At  first  sight  one  looks 
with  disappointment  for  that  sparkle  of  cordiality  which 
in  a  young  man  creates  at  once  an  air  of  charm.  The 
sparkle  is  not  there.  Louis  is  distinctly  cold.  Then  one 
wonders,  still  rather  disappointedly,  whether  some 
strength  of  character  lies  behind  his  impassivity;  and 
while  this  scrutiny  is  in  progress  one  is  rather  discon- 
certed to  find  that  it  is  being  returned  from  behind 
the  pince-nez  by  a  pair  of  steel-grey  eyes.  There  is 
no  suggestion  of  harshness  about  the  face.  It  is  even 
handsome.  But  one  thinks  that  perhaps  Mrs.  Vechantor, 
whose  affection  is  palpable,  must  be  suffering  from  the 
mother-complaint,  and  that  her  swan  is  perhaps  a  sober 
enough  gander  for  Beckwith  and  a  domesticated  future. 

As  a  relief  from  such  doubts  one  turns  to  Mrs. 
Vechantor  herself,  a  white-haired  lady  of  sixty,  with  a 
calm,  ivory  face,  hardly  wrinkled,  and  a  slim  figure  which 
suggests  continued  youth.  As  she  sits  in  the  shadow  of 
a  tall  screen,  Mrs.  Vechantor  seems  to  make  one  think 
of  beautiful,  imperishable  tones  in  pictures  by  the  Dutch 
artists.  One  sees  how  the  quietness  of  this  house  sur- 
rounds her  and  belongs  to  her.  In  her  kind,  grave  old 
eyes  one  finds  the  graceful  authority  from  which  flows 
the  perfect  order  of  the  house.  Life  must  have  passed 
very  pleasantly,  one  thinks,  for  this  lady:  she  can  have 
had  no  miseries.  And  that  is  really  true.  Mrs.  Vechan- 
tor has  been  happily  married,  happy  in  her  motherhood, 
and  she  is  now  happy  in  her  measured  and  occupied 
elderly  age.  She  is  especially  happy  in  her  only  son, 
who  is  waiting  for  his  dinner  with  a  kind  of  pleasant 
thoughtfulness. 

The  door  opens,  and  the  parlourmaid  admits  new  ar- 
rivals. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toppett,  ma'am.     Miss  Lampe  .  .  ." 


22  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

The  room  is  instantly  in  a  flutter  and  a  wonderful 
uproar.  The  Vicar  and  his  wife  stand  quietly  beaming; 
but  their  fellow-traveller  has  begun  in  an  extraordinarily 
shrill  voice  to  address  her  hostess  for  the  evening.  Miss 
Lampe  is  a  shrivelled  little  lady  with  bead-like  eyes, 
who  dresses  eternally  in  a  black  poplin  cut  upon  such 
an  antique  model  that  she  always  looks  the  same  and  as 
if  she  had  worn  black  poplin  since  her  birth.  She  has 
advanced  at  a  kind  of  run,  speaking  continuously.  Even 
while  Mrs.  Vechantor  is  welcoming  the  Toppetts,  Miss 
Lampe  is  still  lavishing  her  conversation  with  the  fine 
carelessness  of  Nature. 


Supposing  one  had  been  present  at  this  scene  one  would 
have  noticed  that  with  the  entrance  of  these  visitors 
Louis  and  his  mother,  although  perfectly  unchanged  in 
manner,  had  separated  themselves  finally  from  the  normal 
standards  of  Beckwith.  Speaking  to  Mr.  Toppett,  Louis 
had  become  by  contrast  more  distinguished.  His  atti- 
tude was  still  lacking  in  animation;  but  his  movements 
were  perfect  and  his  breeding  perceptible.  Mr.  Toppett 
seemed  provincial  beside  him.  The  Toppetts  beamed; 
Miss  Lampe  was  over-emphatic.  They  were  almost  con- 
strained, all  three.  Yet  it  was  not  through  any  failure 
of  tact  or  courtesy  on  the  part  of  the  Vechantors.  They 
were  perfectly  at  ease;  entirely  without  pretentiousness. 
Perhaps  the  difference  lay  in  that  fact?  One  saw  that 
Louis  was  not,  as  a  first  glance  had  seemed  to  indicate, 
the  sleek,  well-groomed  young  man  of  the  City.  He  was 
something  else.  He  had  the  air  of  shining  from  within. 
It  was  curious  that  the  nearness  of  the  clergyman  should 
have  created  such  a  clear  impression  by  contrast.  Mr. 
Toppett  was  far  from  being  an  ignoramus;  his  knowl- 


BECKWITH  23 

edge  of  Church  History  was  considerable:  upon  the 
subject  of  his  Church  he  could  show  himself  well- 
informed  and  eloquent.  He  was  a  Churchman,  as  irrev- 
erent observers  might  have  remarked,  before  he  was  a 
Christian:  doctrine,  history,  the  innumerable  points  at 
which  approved  practice  departs  from  impulsive  ob- 
servance, were  for  him  matters  of  unsurpassed  moment. 
There  was  no  Low  Church  rapprochement  with  Dissent 
in  Beck  with.  Cordial  to  all,  Mr.  Toppett  was  iron  where 
conformity  was  engaged  in  its  battle  for  supremacy. 
He  was  far  from  Rome;  but  his  jaw  stiffened  abruptly, 
and  he  became  parochial,  at  any  serious  theological 
backsliding.  He  was  a  well-built  man  with  a  common, 
bull-dog  face.  He  wore  his  hair  cropped  short,  and 
his  mouth  was  the  ugly  mouth  of  a  public  speaker, 
dropped  at  one  corner.  His  way  of  looking  and  turning 
was  blunt,  rather  pressingly  bluff.  One  had  the  sense 
of  large  hands  and  a  narrow,  efficient  judgment.  He 
was  well-trained,  practical,  warm-hearted;  but  if  any- 
body in  Beckwith  had  known  what  imagination  was  she 
would  have  sought  vainly  for  it  in  Mr.  Toppett's  ser- 
mons or  in  his  everyday  attitude  to  worldly  things.  For 
him  the  material  world  represented  reality :  his  teaching 
was  one  of  accommodation  with  materialism,  not  hos- 
tility to  it.  He  was  in  fact  a  materialist  with  a  belief 
in  a  practicable  hereafter  of  rewards  and  punishments. 
In  his  way  of  coming  to  the  point  Mr.  Toppett  eschewed! 
finesse :  he  had  no  use  for  it  because  it  would  not  have 
availed  him  in  Beckwith.  His  retorts  to  neurasthenic 
parishioners  were  well  known  for  their  outrightness :  he 
would  stand  no  nonsense  from  others,  just  as  he  would 
stand  no  nonsense  from  himself.  This  and  this  was  the 
doctrine  of  the  Church  :  one  either  conformed  to  it  or  one 
left  the  Church  alone.  From  the  pulpit  he  gave  each 
week,  not  ghostly  counsel,  but  good  ethical  instruction 


24  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

in  which  the  teaching  of  the  Church,  at  its  most  orthodox, 
was  implicit.  It  was  also  frequently  explicit:  Mr.  Top- 
pett  told  his  congregation  what  they  must  do.  He  was 
not  a  begging-parson,  and  he  was  not  an  evangelical 
dealer  in  exhortation.  He  was  rough,  hard-hitting,  col- 
loquial; but  he  satisfied  the  men  by  his  acceptance  of 
common  sense  as  the  guiding  light  in  ordinary  affairs, 
and  attracted  the  women  by  his  robustness,  his  manly 
grappling  with  things  near  at  hand.  On  Saturday  after- 
noons he  played  for  the  excellent  town  cricket  team. 
The  women  who  wished  to  worship  emotionally  walked 
to  a  village  church  a  mile  and  a  half  away,  or  they 
indulged  in  another  denomination. 

Louis,  listening  to  Mr.  Toppett's  competent  account 
of  a  political  crisis  in  progress  at  that  time,  heard  the 
ugly  voice  and  saw  the  cold  eyes  of  his  companion  with 
some  appreciation.  He  liked  the  man  for  his  honesty — 
or  his  apparent  honesty;  and  he  respected  his  power  to 
grasp  very  clearly,  if  ordinarily,  the  details  of  political 
forays.  Mr.  Toppett  was  a  moderate  politician,  a  Con^ 
servative  with  an  interest  in  social  amelioration,  a  patriot, 
a  believer  in  strong  government.  He  was  only  offensive 
to  those  with  vehement  views,  who  thought  that  he 
regarded  the  two-party  system  too  much  as  if  its  purity 
and  its  God-given  efficaciousness  were  above  question. 
He  honestly  did  think  that  the  social  order  was  moving 
steadily  to  perfection.  And  in  this  moment  he  was 
speaking  of  the  political  clash  in  terms  of  the  House  of 
Commons  and  of  grave  political  correspondents.  He 
took  it  for  granted  that  the  House  of  Commons  repre- 
sented the  country.  It  was  a  saying  with  him  that  a 
nation  generally  has  the  government  it  deserves.  His 
hatred  of  advanced  political  views,  of  anarchy,  was  such 
that  he  would  often  say,  "A  nation  ...  we  must  be  a 
nation,  not  a  mob."  He  feared  democracy,  and  he  was 


BECKWITH  25 

not  afraid  to  proclaim  the  fear.  "Good  government," 
he  would  explain,  "is  strong  government.  Put  the  mob 
in  power;  and  stability  is  gone.  You  are  at  the  mercy 
of  unpractical  idealists  and  designing  demagogues."  He 
had  a  profound  dislike  of  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  "A 
harlequin,"  he  thought  him.  Mr.  Toppett  could  speak 
freely  of  all  these  matters  to  his  parishioners,  because  all 
the  men  in  Beckwith,  whether  Liberal  or  Conservative, 
were  at  one  upon  such  points  of  policy.  At  elections 
they  voted  one  way  or  the  other  because  they  had  grown 
up  calling  themselves  Liberals  or  Conservatives,  bora 
to  it,  as  W.  S.  Gilbert's  sentry  realised  in  his  reflective- 
ness; but  in  fact  they  were  all  a  part  of  the  backbone 
of  the  country,  all  sound  as  bells  upon  the  question  of 
property,  the  party-system,  a  strong  navy,  no  conscrip- 
tion, limited  monarchy;  divided  only  about  Home  Rule 
for  Ireland  and  Making  the  Foreigner  Pay.  They  had 
for  years  concentrated  upon  these  beliefs,  and  none  of 
them  would  budge  upon  any  point  which  he  had  accepted 
in  more  tender  years.  The  close,  slow  beliefs  of  men 
do  not  change :  Mr.  Toppett  could  not  have  kept  pace 
with  a  changeable  Beckwith.  With  the  Beckwith  of 
reality  he  was  in  close  touch.  He  really  did  represent 
the  men  of  Beckwith  and  was  the  right  man  to  give  them 
each  Sunday  his  thoughts  of  the  week  upon  questions  of 
conduct.  He  never  thundered :  he  made  his  auditors 
respect  him  from  the  front  pews  to  those  at  the  back  of 
his  bare  and  beautiful  church.  He  had  the  world  well 
in  hand;  and  he  believed  that  the  doctrine  of  the  Chris- 
tian Church  supplied  an  answer  to  all  spiritual  dubitations. 
He  thought  it  the  only  intellectual  system  for  which  as 
much  could  be  claimed.  He  was  no  mystic. 

And  yet  one  felt  that  Louis  was  subtly  different  from 
Mr.  Toppett.  Not  that  he  was  wiser  or  more  admirable* 
but  just  that  he  was  more  distinguished  and  capable  o] 


26  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

perhaps  finer  insights.  That  is  not  a  capacity  of  much 
use  in  practical  affairs,  where  the  practical  man  is  essen- 
tial; but  the  existence  from  time  to  time  of  men  like 
Louis  Vechantor  is  not  without  its  significance.  He  was 
a  less  typically  useful  person  than  Mr.  Toppett;  but  he 
was  rather  more  intriguing  to  the  imagination. 


VI 

Miss  Lampe  was  terribly  eager  with  her  news.  She 
could  hardly  wait  until  they  were  all  at  the  dinner-table 
(for  Mr.  Vechantor  arrived  two  minutes  before  the 
gong),  so  keen  was  she  upon  making  her  statement. 
She  was  like  a  cabinet  minister  who  has  been  forced  to 
resign.  The  desire  to  impart  the  truth  washed  out  all 
her  horizons.  But  even  Miss  Lampe  felt  herself  con- 
trolled by  events  and  by  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Vechantor 
and  the  ringing  of  the  gong;  and  so  the  news  did  not 
lose  its  effectiveness  through  being  blurted  out  to  half 
the  party.  It  was  kept  back.  It  simmered  in  her  mind, 
so  that  she  could  not  pay  attention  to  what  was  being 
said  around  her.  How  provoking  Louis  was,  thought 
Miss  Lampe.  It  almost  seemed  as  though  he  were  en- 
couraging Mr.  Toppett  to  speak  interminably  of  the 
political  crisis.  Mr.  Toppett  was  crumbling  bread  and 
speaking  as  to  broad-minded  equals.  His  voice  went  on 
and  on,  like  the  voice  of  Freedom  on  the  heights  of  old. 
Really,  Miss  Lampe  could  not  bear  it  any  longer!  She 
turned  rudely  to  her  host. 

"This  political  crisis,"  said  she  to  Mr.  Vechantor.  "It 
seems  very  serious,  doesn't  it?  Dreadfully!" 

Mr.  Vechantor  agreed.  He  smiled  at  Miss  Lampe, 
who  bored  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  rather  dryly,  forking  a  glance  at  her 
from  beneath  his  bushy  grey  brows.  "Yes.  Very 


BECKWITH  27 

serious.     It  will  make  a  great  difference  to  Beckwith." 

Miss  Lampe  did  not  pause  to  read  his  remark — which 
was  one  reason  why  she  bored  Mr.  Vechantor,  who  was 
one  of  those  elderly  gentlemen  who  like  their  words 
(especially  their  ironical  words)  to  be  as  deliberately 
weighed  by  hearers  as  they  have  been  by  the  speaker. 
She  was  too  eager  to  get  her  conversational  "liaison." 

"So  true,"  she  said.  "Everywhere,  of  course,  but 
especially  in  Beckwith.  Dear  me,  in  matters  of 
change " 

"We  stand  on  the  verge  of  a  great  issue,"  said  Mr. 
Toppett,  barely  interrupted  by  this  impatient  explosion. 
"There  is  a  revolutionary  ferment  in  this  country  that 
may  lead  in  time  to  chaos,  to  anarchy.  Not  yet.  Not 
to-morrow;  but  one  looks,  I  hope,  politically,  beyond 
to-morrow.  The  mass  of  the  people  are  excellent;  but 
there  is  a  dangerous  intellectual  element  of  a  rather  su- 
perior class  that  I  fear.  .  .  .  Men,  and  women,  born 
poor,  or  born  idealistic,  which  is  even  more  dangerous, 
who  are  so  intoxicated  with  the  power  to  think  for 
themselves  that  they  are  irresponsibly  carrying  the  right 
of  private  judgment  to  a  perilous  excess." 

Louis  gravely  assented  to  this  proposition.  Miss 
Lampe  looked  chagrined. 

"Very  dangerous,"  she  said.  "And  indeed  any  change 
is  unsettling.  ...  I  was " 

"Have  you  decided  if  you'll  be  at  home  for  Christmas, 
Miss  Lampe?"  asked  Mrs.  Toppett. 

"Ah,  Beckwith  for  me,"  said  Miss  Lampe.  "I  only 
went  away  last  Christmas  for  a  very  special  reason.  An 
old  friend — very  ill.  .  .  .  I'm  not  like  some  people. 
Beckwith's  been  my  home  for  twenty-two  years;  and  I 
was  very  surprised  to  hear " 

How  unfortunate  Miss  Lampe  was!  At  that  moment 
she  had  to  help  herself  to  vegetables,  and  she  was  not 


28  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

one  of  those  people  who  can  talk  coolly  while  they  are 
performing  this  act.  The  dishes  wobble  so  if  they  are 
impatiently  attacked !  It  really  seemed  as  though  every- 
thing presented  itself  as  an  obstacle  to  her.  During  the 
meal  she  was  foiled  again  and  again.  It  was  only  by 
refusing  fruit  that  she  could  make  sure  of  her  oppor- 
tunity. She  then,  while  the  others  were  bent  upon 
difficult  tasks,  seized  the  table  with  her  fingers  and 
thumbs  (to  give  herself  support)  and  directed  a  shril? 
outcr>'  to  the  ceiling.  She  did  not  look  at  anybody.  She 
simply  said,  very  loudly : 

"Such  a  piece  of  news!  Mr.  Peel  has  sold  his  busi- 
ness; and  they're  going  to  leave  Beckwith  and  move  to 
Croydon !" 

"Ah  yes,"  said  Mr.  Toppett,  stupidly  and  callously. 
"So  I  heard  to-day.  We  shall  miss  Peel." 


vn 

"Peel,"  said  Mr.  Vechantor.  "He's  the  grocer,  isn't 
he?  Oh,  of  course  I  remember.  He's  a  member  of 
your  congregation,  isn't  he,  Toppett?" 

"A  very  good  sort  of  man,"  Mr.  Toppett  affirmed. 

"His  groceries  are  very  good,"  said  Mrs.  Vechantor. 
"Though  some  of  them  seem  to  me  a  little  dear." 

"Do  you  know  who's  bought  the  business?"  asked 
Louis.  So  it  was  he,  after  all,  who  gave  Miss  Lampe 
her  opportunity  of  distended  explanation.  She  would 
have  beamed  upon  him  if  there  had  been  time. 

"No.  I  don't  know  that  much.  I  just  happened  to 
meet  Mrs.  Peel,  who  was  coming  away  from  the  station — 
she'd  come  back  by  the  three  o'clock  train — and  I  stopped 
her — you  know  I  always  do,  ever  since  I  was  able  to  help 
her  when  she  had  that  little  girl  ill — and  asked  after 
the  little  girl.  And  so  she  said  she  was  just  back  from 


BECKWITH  29 

going  to  Croydon,  and  she'd  been  there  to  see  a  house 
Mr.  Peel  had  bought,  and  how  Mr.  Peel  had  sold  his 
business.  I  asked  her  if  she  knew  who  had  bought  it — 
I  was  so  afraid  it  might  be  one  of  those  big  firms  of 
purveyors,  because  it  would  be  such  a  pity  if  one  of  them 
came  to  spoil  dear  little  Beckwith ; — but  she  didn't  know. 
She  said  it  had  all  been  done  through  an  agent,  and  she 
thought  the  whole  sale  had  been  carried  through  pri- 
vately. So  she  couldn't  tell  me  anything,  except  that 
they  expected  to  be  going  at  the  end  of  the  year  and 
the  new  people  coming  on  the  first  of  January.  I  said  I 
hoped  the  new  people  would  be  just  as  satisfactory  as 
Mr.  Peel  had  been,  but  that  we  should  miss  his  cheery 
face  and  his  obligingness  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Toppett  agreeably.  "But 
it  will  be  nice  to  have  a  change.  I  always  thought  Mr. 
Peel's  .  .  ,  beard  was  rather  red."  She  had  been  going 
to  say  "whiskers" ;  but  Mr.  Vechantor  wore  a  grey  beard, 
and  the  memory  of  this,  or  perhaps  the  sight  of  it,  saved 
her  from  indiscretion.  "Really,  it's  very  red,  you  know. 
Perhaps  I'm  fastidious." 

"It's  the  redness  of  his  face,"  Louis  explained.  "The 
two  reds  clash  rather.  As  a  rule  red  hair  goes  with  a 
pale  complexion;  but  Peel  is  abnormal.  I  wonder  what 
makes  his  face  so  red." 

Miss  Lampe's  mouth  became  pinched.  She  was  a 
prude,  and  couldn't  proclaim  her  intuitions.  Had  she 
been  with  Mrs.  Callum  she  would  have  said,  simply,  "he 
drinks";  but  she  could  not  say  such  a  thing  before  the 
Vechantors  and  the  Vicar.  It  would  have  seemed  rather 
outrageous,  even  to  Miss  Lampe. 

"Well,  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  hope  that  his  suc- 
cessor will  be  a  good  grocer,"  said  Mrs.  Vechantor.  "At 
any  rate,  it's  to  be  hoped  that  he  will  be  as  good  a  grocer 
as  Mr.  Peel." 


30  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"And  as  good  a  man,"  added  Mr.  Toppett  urbanely. 

"That,  of  course,"  she  retorted.  "But  I'm  just  being 
selfish,  because  it  would  be  so  very  inconvenient  if  the 
local  grocer  were  a  cheat,  or  supplied  bad  goods.  One 
can't  be  too  careful." 

"As  soon  as  I  hear  anything,  I'll  let  you  know,"  said 
Miss  Lampe.  "I  always  say,"  she  supplemented,  with 
dreadful  naivete,  "that  half  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a 
thing  is  the  thought  of  repeating  it.  Don't  you  think  it 
is?"  She  gave  a  sort  of  nervous  titter  and  swept  Louis's 
face  with  her  shrewd  examining  eyes. 

viii 

It  was  afterwards,  when  Miss  Lampe  was  being  accom- 
panied upon  her  way  home  by  the  Vicar  and  his  wife, 
that  there  occurred  between  the  three  of  them  a  singular 
conversation  about  the  people  with  whom  they  had  so 
amicably  been  dining. 

"How  nice  it  is,"  Mrs.  Toppett  suddenly  observed,  "to 
meet  such  people  as  the  Vechantors.  There's  something 
so  ...  I  don't  exactly  know  what  it  is  ...  something 
...  as  if  they'd  never  had  anything  at  all  troublesome 
or  uncomfortable  in  their  lives  .  .  ." 

"Mrs.  Vechantor's  the  perfect  lady,"  said  her  husband 
gravely.  "Quite  perfect.  There's " 

"So  charming,"  said  Miss  Lampe.  "One  feels  one's 
with  people  .  .  .  who  really  matter." 

"Yes :  doesn't  one.  Not  a  bit  of  side."  Mrs.  Toppett 
was  quite  frankly  enthusiastic.  "I  like  going  there. 
It's  like  going  among  human  beings." 

"My  dear!"  protested  Mr.  Toppett. 

"No,  Harold ;  it  really  is !  One  feels— at  least,  I  do," 
she  added,  with  charming  ingenuousness,  "as  though 
.  .  .  Well,  everybody  in  Beckwith  is  awfully  nice  and 
kind  .  ." 


BECKWITH  31 

"But  the  Vechantors  .  .  ."  supplemented  Miss  Lampe. 

"Of  course,"  Mr.  Toppett  explained,  "it's  quite  true 
that  they've  always  been  rather  wealthy.  One  has  to 
remember  that.  It's  not  as  though  they  weren't  quite 
at  the  head  of  our  little  society." 

They  were  passing  at  this  moment  down  a  dark  lane 
which  led  towards  the  station,  and  a  fresh  breeze  rustled 
the  few  remaining  leaves  of  trees  invisible  to  them  in 
this  opaque  darkness  of  late  Autumn.  Mrs.  Toppett 
shivered  slightly.  A  sudden  gust  of  wind  had  chilled 
her  and  made  her  think  of  her  three  babies. 

"It's  not  that  altogether,"  she  persisted.  "I  like  Mrs. 
Vechantor  so  much.  I  feel  that  she's  .  .  .  you  know 
.  .  .  really  sympathetic  with  what  one  feels." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  giving  Miss  Lampe  a  wrong  im- 
pression," suggested  her  husband  "There's  a  great  deal 
of  real  sympathy  in  Beck  with."  He  was  much  too 
shrewd  a  man  not  to  see  that  a  confidence,  however 
innocent,  is  dangerous  in  such  darkness,  in  such  a  mood 
of  enthusiasm,  when  one's  hearer  is  a  lady  with  a  tongue 
and  ears  and  a  very  quick  sense  of  the  unpleasant. 

"Miss  Lampe  knows  what  I  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Toppett 
warmly.  "It's  nothing  at  all  to  be  confused  about.  I'm 
sure  I  have  many  friends  in  Beckwith.  They  are  charm- 
ing people.  No,  I  can't  quite  express  what  I  feel.  It's 
just  that  I  feel  so  happy  at  Apple  House.  .  .  .  It's 
like  a  holiday.  .  .  ." 

She  was  being  horribly  indiscreet;  but  her  tongue  was 
out  of  control,  and  she  was  easily  moved  by  darkness, 
and  might  then  have  confided  things  which  she  would 
afterwards  regret  having  said.  Miss  Lampe  was  avidly 
listening,  her  eyes  well-open,  and  her  lips  parted. 

"Oh,  quite"  she  said.     "It's  a  change  .  .  ." 

"I'm  never  quite  sure  how  far  Mr.  Vechantor  is  sym- 
pathetic," said  Mr.  Toppett  guardedly.  "He  is  always 


32  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

most  considerate.     He's  quite  the  grand  man  of  affairs, 

I  feel." 

"Yes.  I  wish  I  understood  Louis,  too,  exclaimed 
his  wife.  "I  must  admit  he  rather  mystifies  me/' 

"That's  strange  ...  I  never  feel  that  .  .  ."  said  her 
husband.  "Possibly  it's  because  I've  known  him  so  long. 
I  always  feel  he's  .  .  .  well,  if  that  weren't  rather  an 
odd  word  to  apply  to  a  young  man,  I  think  I  should 
describe  him  as  'sound.'  With  so  many  young  men  of 
our  day  there's  a  kind  of  forced  levity — a  self -conscious- 
ness that  won't  allow  them  to  be  serious.  .  .  ." 

"He's  very  serious,"  said  Mrs.  Toppett. 

"Well,  .  .  .  if  he?"  suddenly  demanded  Miss  Lampe. 
"I  sometimes  wonder." 

"Oh,  do  tell  us  what  you  mean !"  begged  Mrs.  Toppett. 
"It  sounds  so  mysterious!" 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  it;  but  sometimes  I 
wonder  ...  I  wonder  if  Louis  is  quite  all  that  we  think 
him  .  .  ."  hinted  Miss  Lampe.  She  also  was  rather 
moved  to  expansiveness  by  their  complete  concealment 
from  each  other. 

"Of  course,  he's  a  young  man;  and  we  know  that 
young  men  ..."  Mr.  Toppett  was  disposed  to  recon- 
cile matters  in  this  way.  "But,  speaking  for  myself,  I've 
always  found  Louis  very  attentive,  very  much  inclined — 
as  few  young  men  are — to  hear  what  his  elders  have  got 
to  say." 

"Ye-es,"  hesitated  Miss  Lampe.  "Yes  ...  I  sup- 
pose he  is.  ...  And  yet  I've  sometimes  thought  ...  I 
can't  help  feeling  that  he's  apt  to  over-value  himself. 
You  see  ...  as  though  he  was  .  .  .  just  a  little  .  .  . 
just  a  little  amused  at  anything  we  say !" 

They  were  all  rather  silent  until  they  reached  Miss 
Lampe's  house.  It  was  such  an  odd  idea. 


CHAPTER  II:  APPLE  HOUSE 


IT  was  not  until  the  week  before  Christmas  that 
thing  further  happened  at  Beckwith;  for  events  go 
slowly  in  ^  that  town.  Daily  the  society  of  the  district 
wound  yet  more  tightly  the  never-ending  ball  of  its 
general  relation.  Visiting  days  hurried  by ;  thick  skeins 
of  talk  were  unravelled  to  make  the  general  resource  of 
local  life :  marketing  was  done,  meals  eaten,  parties  given, 
songs  sung,  dresses  brought  out  and  laid  away  again; 
and  still  nothing  really  happened  in  Beckwith.  Nothing 
serious  ever  did  happen  there.  That  was  a  part  of  its 
charm.  It  was  like  a  backwater.  A  writer  with  a  gift 
for  sentimental  fantasy  could  have  made  it  the  scene  of  a 
thousand  delightful  unrealities.  Only  time  was  con- 
sumed. Nothing  could  have  increased  the  eagerness  with 
which  precious  time  was  consumed.  As  if  time  were 
not  so  valuable!  Yet  Beckwith  was  a  cormorant  in  its 
consumption  of  time.  No  dragon  of  old  could  more 
ravenously  have  demanded  its  feasts  of  young  virgins. 
Kill  time!  Watch  this  affair  and  that,  bring  blushes  to 
maiden  cheeks,  stiltedness  to  young  male  manners;  eat, 
drink,  and  be  ever  engaged  in  the  consumption  of  pre- 
cious time !  That  was  the  secret,  terrible  aim  of  dwellers 
in  Beckwith.  To  eat  a  day  and  look  forward  to  the  next 
with  insatiable  appetite !  Little  concerts  in  half-warmed 
Church  Rooms,  little  amateur  theatricals  and  dances  in 
the  shabby  Town  Hall — anything  to  destroy  the  danger 

33 


34  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

that  lurks  in  unoccupied  time.  Never  mind  if  the  things 
are  useless,  if  hours  of  planning  are  wasted  upon  a  futile 
ceremony  of  some  sort!  Dress  your  children  in  flimsy 
clothes  and  let  them  take  cold;  but  force  them  into  the 
paths  of  emulation  and  excitement  so  that  they  shall 
thoroughly  enjoy  life,  and  get  the  most  out  of  it.  It  is 
necessary:  restlessness  demands  an  outlet,  not  in  con- 
structive action,  not  in  clear-thinking,  nor  in  real  festi- 
vals or  the  cultivation  of  growth;  but  solely  in  the  de- 
struction of  time  and  the  resuscitation  of  exhausting 
excitements.  Satan  finds  work  for  idle  hands  to  do,  and 
Satan  must  be  foiled.  How  the  brave  ladies  of  Beck- 
with  kept  Satan  at  bay!  They  talked  and  performed 
their  local  duties  from  hour  to  hour,  unhesitatingly  put- 
ting away  any  thought  for  the  future  if  only  the  to- 
morrow might  be  measurably  occupied.  And  so  the 
weeks  passed,  and  Christmas  came  about.  There  would 
be  waits  (they  began  to  moan  like  dead  leaves  in  the 
porches  from  the  beginning  of  December,  each  batch 
driven  to  begin  earlier  so  as  to  forestall  for  economic 
reasons  the  other  batches,  who  received  smaller  rewards)  ; 
there  were  puddings  to  be  made  and  presents  to  be 
planned,  and  the  churches  to  be  decorated,  and  invita- 
tions to  be  given.  A  thousand  bizarre  manifestations 
of  modesty  and  jealousy  were  necessary  for  the  creation 
of  a  social  atmosphere  of  seasonable  gaiety.  Miss 
Lampe  must  see  and  record  parcels  brought  from  the 
station ;  Mrs.  Jebolt  must  watch  from  the  window  to  see 
what  Mrs.  March  was  doing  in  the  opposite  house  in  her 
working  pinafore  at  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day;  Mrs. 
Derrick  must  hear  the  truth  about  Mrs.  Daunton's  son 
and  his  affair  with  a  most  unfortunate  young  woman 
who  worked  somewhere  in  the  City;  Mrs.  Callum  must 
observe  the  Deadwoods'  maid  walking  with  a  young  man 
in  the  Station  Road,  and  laugh  because  he  had  squeaky 


APPLE  HOUSE  35 

boots  and  cleared  his  throat  rather  proudly — as  if,  poor 
being,  he  thought  he  was  "in  love"!  So  funny  that 
people  of  that  sort  .  .  .  So,  consumed  in  activities,  these 
cheerful  Beckwithians  prepared  for  the  festival  before 
them.  It  was  the  way  they  had  always  lived.  It  "suited" 
them;  and  as  the  days  drew  to  a  close  they  exclaimed 
with  relish:  "How  the  time  goes!  I  must  do  this  and 
this  to-morrow,  or  I  shall  never  be  finished  by  Christ- 
mas!" There  seemed  to  be  a  general  busy-ness  in  the 
air.  Even  good  friends  passed  each  other,  beaming,  in 
the  street,  as  speechless  as  if  they  were  still  holding  pins 
or  pieces  of  string  in  their  mouths.  They  all  under- 
stood: it  was  a  part  of  life:  the  season  was  giving  them 
rare  occupation  and  concern  with  the  needs  of  others. 
They  even  smiled  when  they  heard  the  waits  in  the 
porches,  although  the  waits  sometimes  distracted  their 
thoughts  and  made  their  husbands  rather  irritable.  .  .  . 

ii 

At  Apple  House  the  Vechantors  seemed  to  be  as  peace- 
ful as  usual.  Mrs.  Vechantor  had  made  or  bought  all 
her  presents,  and  the  puddings  were  standing  in  splendid 
rows  in  a  special  section  of  the  store-room.  At  Apple 
House  everything  was  prepared  so  gradually  that  the 
maids  hardly  knew  how  much  extra  work  had  been  done 
until  they  saw  the  visible  evidence  of  it  before  their 
astonished  eyes.  They  then  admired  Mrs.  Vechantor. 
She  had  few  servant  troubles.  All  the  other  Beckwith 
ladies  had  them;  but  once  at  Apple  House  maids  were 
not  attracted  elsewhere.  They  met  other  maids,  and 
discoursed ;  and  the  other  maids  went  home  discontented. 
If  the  Vechantors  had  not  been  so  well  established  in 
the  district  there  might  even  have  been  some  feeling 
against  them  among  the  puzzled  mistresses  of  the  town. 


36  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

But  these,  vaguely  understanding  the  attractions  of  su- 
perior service,  more  clearly  defined  work,  and  the  gen- 
eral charm  of  Apple  House,  merely  sighed  and  talked 
among  themselves,  rather  helplessly,  as  a  Cabinet  must 
do  about  Labour  Troubles  and  the  Revolutionary  Fer- 
ment which  from  time  to  time  arises  among  the  lower 
orders. 

Upon  an  evening  about  a  week  before  Christmas  the 
Vechantors  were  dining  alone.  The  evening  was  very 
cold,  and  there  was  snow  outside.  Upon  every  bare 
branch  it  stood  like  a  thick  white  rim,  and  the  ground  was 
laden  with  its  heavy  carpeting.  Lights  across  the  com- 
mon had  a  pretty  frozen  air,  for  the  wind  was  shrewd. 
It  carried  the  snowflakes  that  fell  crisply  from  invisible 
clouds  far  above  the  farthest  point  of  vision.  All  the 
common  was  white.  The  windows  themselves  had  little 
drifts  of  melting  snow  upon  the  panes,  snow  that  began 
to  trickle  down  in  streams  of  mottled  wet  as  the  warmth! 
of  the  rooms  dissolved  the  driven  flakes.  It  was  a  winter 
night,  that  made  rooms  more  cheerfully  cosy  than  ever. 
Except  for  the  indefatigable  waits  the  streets  of  Beckwith 
were  empty.  At  Apple  House  the  gong  had  gone,  and 
dinner  was  ready  to  be  served.  Only  Mr.  Vechantor, 
who  always  stayed  in  his  room  until  the  last  minute, 
reading  Gibbon's  "Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire," was  awaited. 

At  last  he  too  came,  having  for  the  twentieth  time 
savoured  the  wonderful  account  of  Julian  the  Apostate, 
and  the  party  was  complete.  With  a  good  deal  of 
manner  Mr.  Vechantor  took  the  head  of  the  table— a  tall 
old  man  with  grey  hair  and  beard  and  a  rather  fine  face. 
He  had  long  and  very  thin  hands,  with  which  he  smoothed 
back  his  moustaches ;  and  every  now  and  then  he  would 
throw  about  him  a  quick  glance  from  under  his  bushy 
eyebrows,  so  that  he  seemed  periodically  to  see  every- 


APPLE  HOUSE  87 

thing,  corrosively.  It  was  not  known  how  much  he  saw, 
or  what  he  saw,  for  Mr.  Vechantor  did  not  say  a  great 
deal.  Perhaps  not  more  than  five  thousand  words  in  a 
day.  Yet  the  speed  of  his  black  eyes  in  their  lightning 
darts  was  immeasurable.  It  suggested  a  retention  of  an 
altogether  unusual  amount  of  intellectual  youth  and 
energy. 

Opposite  to  Mr.  Vechantor  sat  his  wife,  clothed  in  a 
beautiful  dress  of  amber  silk,  with  real  old  lace  at  her 
breast  and  wrists.  The  dress  heightened  the  clear  beauty 
of  her  face.  She  looked  all  the  more  delicate  (though, 
of  course,  not  at  all  fragile)  because  of  the  soft  contrast 
of  her  dress  and  its  lace  trimmings.  She  too  had  a  very 
clear  glance;  but  it  was  not  sudden,  as  her  husband's 
was,  and  it  saw  a  great  deal  without  seeming  to  do  so. 
She  lived  in  a  curious  world  of  thought  which  was  almost 
understanding.  She  was  always  speculating  about  char- 
acter, not  watchfully,  but  as  if  she  lived  in  a  fairy  story 
or  a  saga,  and  sang  out  the  secrets  of  those  who  were 
in  her  company.  Only  she  sang  them,  as  it  were,  to  her- 
self;  and  the  ladies  of  Beckwith  never  knew.  That  was 
why  they  admired  her  so  much,  and  were  mystified  by 
her.  She  never  told  what  she  saw. 

Between  them  sat  Louis,  very  well-groomed  and  rather 
too  spotless.  He  had  his  mother's  clear  glance,  but  it 
was  obviously  more  scrutinising ;  and  his  pince-nez  helped 
both  to  conceal  this  and,  when  it  was  discovered,  to  em- 
phasise it.  He  had  a  very  beautifully  shaped  mouth, 
and  the  carriage  of  his  dark  head  was  sensitive  and 
noticeable.  His  nostrils  were  thin  and  fine,  and  he  had 
smaller  hands  than  his  father.  If  he  had  not  worn  the 
little  black  moustache  he  would  have  seemed  more  hand- 
some and  less  sleek,  for  his  hair  had  a  slight  curl,  and  he 
did  not  use  any  kind  of  pomade.  But  the  little  black 
moustache,  which  in  itself  thrilled  many  of  the  younger 


38  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

ladies  in  Beckwith,  was  a  grave  decorative  mistake.  It 
may  have  been  a  concession  to  his  bearded  father,  or  a 
belated  survival  from  the  days  of  his  nascent  manhood; 
but  it  was  not  a  characteristic  of  his  present  stage  of 
growth,  and  it  was  still  regrettable. 
3  These  three  Vechantors,  then,  sat  round  their  own 
dinner-table,  and  were  solemnly  served  with  dinner  at 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  moments  of  their  common 
life.  They  did  not  know  it  was  extraordinary;  and 
were  all  quite  unable  to  see  that  a  crisis  was  threatening 
their  domestic  comfort;  but  in  bringing  in  the  coffee 
Rosemary,  the  well-tried  parlour-maid  at  Apple  House, 
brought  also  a  long  white  envelope,  which  she  placed  be- 
fore her  mistress,  just  beside  the  tray  bearing  the  coffee 
pot  and  coffee  cups.  This  was  the  crisis,  or  at  least  its 
proximate  cause. 

"It's  just  been  left,  ma'am,"  Rosemary  said  in  her 
hushed  voice;  and  with  a  quick  flirr  of  petticoats  she 
was  gone. 

iii 

Mrs.  Vechantor,  looking  idly  at  the  envelope,  saw  that 
it  was  addressed  to  herself  in  a  handwriting  unknown  to 
her.  For  some  moments,  therefore,  she  did  not  raise  it 
from  the  table;  but  served  the  coffee  and  affectionately 
watched  her  son  dab  his  cigarette  in  the  ash-tray.  She 
always  smiled  in  looking  at  him,  because  she  could  not 
see  him  sitting  there,  a  man,  without  having  strange, 
charming  glimpses  of  him  as  a  baby  and  a  boy.  Just  as  a 
popular  monthly  used  to  print  photographs  of  celebrated 
persons  at  different  stages  of  growth,  so  Mrs.  Vechantor, 
much  less  mechanically  and  horribly,  had  these  quick 
living  portraits  of  her  two  children.  And  so  Louis  ap- 
peared to  her  to  be  still  the  little  child  she  had  dressed 


APPLE  HOUSE  39 

in  a  scarlet  pelisse,  and  the  little  boy  she  had  known  in 
a  sailor  suit,  and  the  older  boy  who  had  come  home  from 
the  local  cricket-  and  football-fields  with  proud  tales  of 
great  deeds  performed  by  the  men  of  Beckwith.  He  was 
never  simply  the  polished  young  man  who  handled  a 
cigarette  so  fastidiously.  He  was  still  her  baby,  a  source 
of  wondrous  delights. 

That  was  how  the  letter  came  to  be  overlooked  for  a 
time.  It  lay  unheeded  upon  the  table,  a  long  envelope 
with  a  damp  edge  where  the  snow  had  caught  it  and 
melted  in  the  warmth  of  the  kitchen.  Almost  absent- 
mindedly  Mrs.  Vechantor  at  last,  still  thinking  about  her 
son  and  reading  below  his  manner  into  memory  of  his 
experiences  as  a  little  boy,  tore  the  envelope  and  ex- 
tracted its  contents.  These  proved  to  be  two  sheets  of 
quarto  paper,  folded ;  and  the  communications  they  bore 
had  been  printed  at  Messrs.  Platt's,  the  local  press. 
They  were  very  badly  printed,  and  ugly,  and  obviously 
boring.  For  a  moment  Mrs.  Vechantor  smiled  at  the 
solemnity  of  the  upper  communication.  Then,  as  she 
turned  to  the  other  one,  her  smile  disappeared;  and  her 
eyes  grew  round  with  astonishment.  It  was  her  ex- 
clamation that  first  drew  upon  her  the  interested  eyes  of 
her  two  companions. 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Mrs.  Vechantor,  in  a  breath- 
less voice.  Perhaps  she  had  never  before,  in  all  her 
life,  had  such  an  unexpected  and  overwhelming  shock. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  paper  which  she  held  in  her 
hand.  She  seemed  altogether  incredulous.  "Good  gra- 
cious!" she  said  again.  "How  awful!" 

iv 

These  were  the  two  letters  which  Mrs.  Vechantor  held 
in  her  hand,  printed  in  small  pica  type  upon  stiff  shiny 


40  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

paper,  with  headings  in  the  curly  capital  letters  which  are 
now  rarely  found  outside  the  offices  of  local  printers. 
The  first  ran : 

12  HIGH  STREET,  BECKWITH 

December 
DEAR  MADAM, 

Having  disposed  of  my  business  I  am  leaving  Beckwith 
at  the  end  of  the  year  after  a  long  period  in  which  I  have 
enjoyed  the  favour  of  your  custom.  It  is  with  great 
regret  that  I  leave  Beckwith,  but  it  is  my  desire  to  devote 
the  remaining  years  of  my  life  to  duties  less  strenuous 
and  arduous  than  those  of  the  past.  In  retiring  from 
business,  however,  I  beg  to  assure  you  of  the  unchanged 
policy  of  my  successor,  who  has  bought  the  business  as 
it  stands.  I  therefore  solicit,  on  behalf  of  my  successor, 
a  continuance  of  the  favour  of  your  custom. 

With  compliments  and  grateful  thanks  for  your  con- 
sideration in  the  past,  I  am,  dear  Madam,  Respectfully 
yours,  JAMES  PEEL 

There  was  nothing  the  matter  with  such  a  letter.  It 
was  the  letter  of  one  who  had  prospered  and  earned  a 
right  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  days  in  a  red-brick  villa 
with  geraniums  in  the  front  garden.  It  was  in  the  sup- 
plement to  Mr.  Peel's  letter  that  the  astounding  news 
was  conveyed. 

The  second  printed  communication  read  thus: 

12  HIGH  STREET,  BECKWITH 

December 
DEAR  MADAM, 

In  succession  to  Mr.  James  Peel  Having  bought  the 
above  business  I  beg  to  solicit  a  continuance  of  your 
custom.  The  establishment  will  be  continued  upon  the 
lines  laid  down  by  Mr.  Peel  in  the  past.  The  same  high 


APPLE  HOUSE  41 

quality  will  be  maintained  in  every  branch  of  the  busi- 
ness. I  trust  therefore  that  I  may  receive  a  continuance4 
of  the  patronage  kindly  accorded  to  Mr.  Peel,  which 
patronage  I  shall  study  to  deserve.  I  shall  have  much 
pleasure  in  waiting  upon  you  if  desired. 

With  assurances  of  my  close  attention  to  your  interests, 
I  am,  Madam,  Respectfully  yours, 

WILLIAM  VECHANTOR 


As  she  read  out  this  name  Mrs.  Vechantor  could  not 
help  looking  up  to  observe  the  emotional  effect  its  pro- 
nunciation made  upon  her  two  hearers.  Mr.  Vechan- 
tor's  face  perceptibly  fell.  Louis's  expression  lightened 
in  an  amazed  smile.  It  was  the  first  time  for  years  that 
he  had  been  surprised.  There  was  a  moment's  silence, 
while  all  three  groped  their  way  carefully  back  through 
the  sparse  foliage  of  the  Vechantor  family  tree.  Perched 
there,  only  two  generations  behind  them,  they  found  in 
that  disappeared  younger  brother  of  Stephen  Vechantor 
the  answer  to  this  riddle.  The  glances  of  Mr.  and  MrsJ 
Vechantor  met  in  a  very  significant  fashion  as  Louis  said 
quickly : 

"This  must  be  a  legacy  from  your  shady  old  great- 
uncle,  Dad.  Cousin  William !  Of  course  he's  a  cousin ! 
Unless  it's  a  pseudonym !  Now,  why  on  earth  should  he 
have  come  to  Beckwith!" 

"Beckwith!"  exclaimed  his  mother.  Then  she  began 
to  laugh  very  quietly.  "Just  imagine!  Everybody  in 
Beckwith  must  have  read  these  circulars  just  as  we've 
been  doing  it!  What  a  sensation  it  will  be  for  them! 
It  will  be  like  warning  fires !" 

Mr.  Vechantor  rose  violently  from  his  chair  and  stood 
by  the  table,  smoothing  his  moustaches  away  from  his 
mouth.  Such  an  action  showed  that  he  was  unusually 


4*  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

excited.  Before  speaking,  however,  he  sat  down  again 
and  impatiently  pushed  away  his  napkin. 

"It's  very  serious,"  he  said.  "It's  very  unfortunate. 
It's  disastrous." 

Louis  drew  down  his  mouth  in  a  comical  grimace  and 
glanced  mischievously  sideways  at  the  perplexed  face 
of  his  mother. 

"You'll  have  an  influx  of  callers  to-morrow,"  he  sug- 
gested dryly.  "And  I  know  who'll  be  the  first  among 
them  all.  Miss  Lampe."  He  even  glanced  at  the  clock, 
wondering  if  she  would  be  able  to  resist  the  impulse  to 
run  out  in  her  goloshes  that  same  evening. 

"Yes,  but  don't  you  see,"  interrupted  Mr.  Vechantor, 
rather  passionately.  "This  isn't  the  end  of  it.  It's  not 
a  thing  to  smile  over  and  dismiss.  There's  more  to 
come.  There's  no  end  to  what  it  may  lead  to !" 

They  all  looked  at  each  other,  in  some  consternation 


CHAPTER  III:  LOUIS 


THEY  continued  to  sit  at  the  dinner-table,  as  if 
petrified,  all  eyes  upon  the  two  badly-printed  cir- 
culars which  had  disturbed  their  tranquillity.  The  clock 
upon  the  mantelpiece  ticked  gently,  the  fire  murmured 
and  huskily  rearranged  its  formations.  And  across  the 
dazzling  tablecloth  the  Vechantors  were  realising  the 
monstrous  news.  Mr.  Vechantor  was  frowning;  his 
long  hands  made  nervous  movements.  Mrs.  Vechantor 
fingered  the  edge  of  her  saucer.  Louis,  his  eyes  con- 
tracted, and  a  little  whimsical  nick  or  perpendicular 
crease  showing  in  his  clear  forehead,  studied  his  char- 
ring cigarette,  from  which  a  faint  drift  of  blue  smoke 
was  trailing  away  into  nothing.  Mr.  Vechantor  was 
easily,  of  the  three,  the  most  discomposed.  He  was  gen- 
uinely distressed.  It  made  him  impatient.  It  made  him 
exclaim. 

"Tchah!"  said  he,  fidgeting.  "Tut  tut  tut."  He 
clucked  his  tongue  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  Again 
he  muttered:  "Disastrous." 

"It's  rather  awful,"  agreed  his  wife.  "What  ever 
shall  we  do!"  They  both  relapsed  into  gloom.  The 
shadow  of  Beckwith  was  upon  them.  There  was  silence. 

"I  really  don't  think  it's  as  bad  as  all  that,"  Louis 
said,  after  a  long  pause.  "I  mean,  it  doesn't  concern 
us.  People  like  Miss  Lampe  will  gape  and  nudge  and 
gobble  for  a  week  or  two;  and  after  that  perhaps 

43 


44  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

strangers  coming  across  the  name  may  be  curious.  But 
it's  over  then.  An  anomaly ;  but  not  a  fatal  thing  at  all. 
Not  even  like  a  forgery.  It's  nothing  at  all.  At  least, 
if  our  name  were  Smith— or  even  Bannerman,  or  Camp- 
bell— it  would  be  nothing  at  all." 

His  father  looked  impatiently  at  him,  not  weighing  the 
argument. 

"That's  perfectly  true,"  he  said.  "Perfectly.  But  it's 
got  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Our  name  is  neither  Smith 
nor  Campbell.  It's  Vechantor.  It's  a  peculiar  name. 
No,  no;  I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  be  a  difficulty.  We're 
not  in  London.  It  would  matter  less  in  a  city.  You 
see,  they're  obviously  cousins  of  ours.  There's  no  get- 
ting away  from  that — however  you  may  try  to  blink 
the  fact." 

"I'm  not "  began  Louis,  surprised. 

"Remember,  Louis,"  added  his  mother.  "The  rela- 
tionship is  close.  If  they  were  anywhere  else  but  on 
our  doorstep.  .  .  .  But  it  is  so  dreadful  to  order  your 
groceries  from  a  cousin,  to  owe  him  money  .  .  ." 

"There's  no  need  to  do  that"  hastily  remarked  Mr. 
Vechantor,  moved  by  his  irritation.  "I  don't  think  we 
need  study  such  a  possibility."  Mrs.  Vechantor  smiled 
at  his  rapidity  in  misunderstanding  her  remark. 

"And  most  people  would  be  glad  to  have  a  cousin  in 
the  provision  trade,"  Louis  said.  "It  would  be  such  a 
convenience  in  case  of  a  food-shortage.  That's  a  very 
small  matter.  It  isn't  as  though  we  were  aristocrats." 

Mr.  Vechantor  winced.  He  had  always  been  sorry 
that  his  grandfather  had  started  life  in  the  tea  trade, 
although  until  now  he  had  never  been  ashamed  of  it. 
Until  now  there  had  been  no  present  circumstance  to 
prevent  him  from  smiling  grimly  at  the  memory.  Mrs. 
Vechantor  was  also  displeased  at  the  apparent  flippancy 
«>f  Louis's  remark  and  its  plain  suggestion. 


LOUIS  45 

"This  is  what  I'm  thinking,"  she  said  steadily.  "If  a 
cousin  of  ours  came  to  Beckwith — just  to  live — I  should 
be  overjoyed;  because  I  miss  the  satisfaction  that  your 
own  kin  can  give.  I  should  immediately  call  upon  her 
and  do  all  I  could  to  help  her.  All  my  friends  would 
call  upon  her.  Everybody,  for  our  sake,  would  know  her, 
do  you  see ;  and  without  any  of  the  bother  of  building  up 
acquaintance  she  would  take  her  place  in  the  town." 

Louis  gave  a  little  scornful  laugh. 

"That  might  be  a  reason  for  not  coming  to  Beckwith," 
he  dryly  suggested. 

"For  a  misanthropical  person,  yes;  but  don't  you  see 
...  I  don't  want  to  be  a  snob.  I  hope  I'm  not  one) 
.  .  .  though  one  can  never  tell,  of  course.  But  this 
is  my  quandary.  If  I  don't  call  on  our  cousins  I  shan't 
be  able  to  forgive  myself;  and  if  I  do  call  on  the  new 
grocer's  family  I  shall  very  likely  throw  the  town  into 
a  state  of  social  anarchy.  All  the  desirable  boundaries 
will  be  upset  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Vechantor  was  quietly  smiling 
as  she  said  this,  and  of  course  her  listeners  did  not  take 
seriously  the  accoupt  she  gave  of  her  perplexities.  But 
she  may  have  spoken  truly,  so  far  as  the  effect  on  Beck- 
with was  concerned. 

"Would  that  matter?  Jolly  good  job  to  upset  the 
cliques,"  said  Louis.  This  saying  exasperated  his  already 
impatient  father. 

"Nonsense.  Nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Vechantor.  "One 
must  respect  the  convenances." 

"You  can't  think  it  matters,  Dad !" 

"Not  in  a  large  sense.  To  us,  and  to  Beckwith,  it 
matters  a  great  deal.  It's  not  as  though  we  were  even 
a  five-hundred  a  year  family  .  .  ."  Mr.  Vechantor  was 
really  excited.  "We  must  think  of  our  position  in  the 
town.  You  can't  abdicate  thoughtlessly  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  we're  monarchs!"     Louis  was  again   scornful. 


46  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Think  of  the  grocer  himself.  He  probably  wants  to 
stick  to  his  business — to  make  money.  If  our  account's 
big  enough  he  won't  worry  about  a  name.  After  all, 
he's  come  to  Beckwith  as  a  grocer,  not  as  our  cousin. 
The  only  communication  we've  had  from  him  is  a  cir- 
cular asking  for  our  custom.  Why  be  so  dreadfully 
self-conscious  about  it?  If  he  were  a  grocer  at  Seven- 
oaks  we  shouldn't  bother  about  him.  He's  nothing  to 
us.  He  never  has  been  anything.  Just  because  he's 
dropped  from  the  clouds!  It's  too  absurd!  Why  not 
take  the  whole  thing — it's  the  only  practical  way — as 
people  of  the  world?  Recognise  the  difference  of  social 
position,  or  ignore  Beckwith  altogether  and  take  him  to 
our  bosoms?" 

Mr.  Vechantor  started  up.  He  could  no  longer  keep 
still.  The  discussion  had  become  intolerable. 

"We'll  go  into  the  drawing-room,"  he  said.  "I  find 
this  sort  of  talk  more  than  I  can  bear."  He  led  the 
way  across  the  wide  hall,  and  stood  moodily  looking 
down  into  the  fire.  The  glances  he  shot  at  Louis  were 
filled  with  repulsion.  All  his  movements  were  sudden 
and  convulsive  with  nervous  irritation.  But  some  dim 
sense  of  this  hostility  only  chilled  Louis's  imagination 
and  forced  him  back  upon  a  kind  of  arid,  obstinate 
development  of  his  theme. 

"If  you  reverse  the  positions,"  he  continued.  "Take 
it  from  his  side.  Say  I've  come  into  a  district  to  make 
money,  and  I  find  a  family  with  my  name  occupying  a 
fairly  prominent  position  in  the  town " 

"Fairly  prominent!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Vechantor. 
"That's  a  curious  phrase." 

Louis  proceeded  in  a  rather  constrained  voice,  ignor- 
ing his  father's  objection : 

"If  I  were  in  ...  my  cousin's  place,"  he  said  coolly, 
"I  should  laugh;  but  I  should  want  to  stick  to  my  last. 


LOUIS  47 

I  shouldn't  want  anything  to  do  with  him.  I  should 
feel  proud  of  my  independence;  and  down  with  power 
and  privilege !  If  he  or  his  wife  came  to  see  me — assum- 
ing I  were  the  shop-keeper — I  should  certainly  resent  hi^ 
patronage.  I  should  very  likely  insult  him." 

"He's  probably  got  a  wife,"  urged  Mrs.  Vechantor. 
"It's  she  who  is  the  difficulty." 

"Why?  If  you  run  into  her  you  can  be  quite  ami- 
able." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  thinking  of  Beckwith,"  said  Mrs. 
Vechantor  frankly.  "I  don't  want  Beckwith  to  judge 
me  wrongly.  It's  not  a  thing  I  generally  consider,  I 
admit;  but  I  want  to  do  what  is  best — for  these  other 
Vechantors  and  for  ourselves.  And  at  the  moment  I 
can't  see  what  that  is." 

"Beckwith!"  said  Louis.  "What  a  tyranny  the  place 
is!  Ignore  it.  Ignore  the  grocer.  Ignore  everything; 
but  don't  put  yourself  about,  mother  dear." 

Mr.  Vechantor,  less  superficially  impatient  than  he  had 
been,  was  plunged  in  gloom. 

"Louis  sees  it  all  as  a  modern  young  man — half  a 
snob,  half  a  Socialist,"  he  at  last  pronounced  in  a  melan- 
choly voice.  "That's  really  the  whole  difficulty  with 
him."  It  was  an  unexpected  frontal  attack. 

"Socialist!"  exclaimed  Louis  incredulously.     "Snob!" 

"That's  what  they  taught  you  to  be  at  Oxford,  isn't 
it?  Isn't  that  the  curriculum?  Intellectual  and  ethical 
snobbery?  A  sort  of  logic-chopping  pseudo-Socialism?" 
Mr.  Vechantor  continued  to  speak  rather  fiercely  in 
presence  of  his  amazed  hearers.  "Religiosity,  of  course, 
and  the  worship  of  emotionalism — one  understands  and 
expects  that  from  Oxford ;  but  this  sort  of  shallow  demo- 
cratic snobbery.  .  .  .  It's  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other 
— this  modern  poison  in  our  young  men." 


48  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Louis  was  deeply  moved.  His  faced  had  sharpened 
and  paled. 

"Really,  Dad  .  .  ."  he  began.  "I'd  no  idea  of  this 
cleavage  between  us." 

"There's  no  cleavage,  dear,"  Mrs.  Vechantor  inter- 
rupted, looking  with  surprised  entreaty  at  her  husband. 
He,  with  his  face  now  warmly  coloured,  and  his  eyes 
angry  and  suffused,  replied  to  this  glance. 

"I  think  Louis  wants  waking  up,"  he  said  quickly. 
"I've  been  thinking  it  for  some  time.  This  evening's 
talk  points  the  need  of  it.  Louis  thinks,  as  all  clever 
young  men  do,  that  by  talking  in  generalisations  you  can 
avert  the  plain  issue  of  facts.  His  talk  is  full  of  terms 
such  as  'Oligarchy,'  'Plutocracy,'  'Medievalism,'  'La- 
bour/ and  so  on,  which  he's  picked  up  at  Oxford  because 
that's  the  terminology  of  his  set.  He's  got  no  conception 
of  realities  at  all — only  of  terms.  His  pseudo-Socialism 
— a  sort  of  sterile  intellectualism — is  shown  in  his  wish 
to  ignore  the  difficulty  here.  His  Romanticism  is  shown 
in  his  belief  that  you  can  ignore  the  society  you  live  in. 
All  that  is  taught  at  Oxford,  where  the  State  is  wor- 
shipped and  the  commonweal  overlooked.  He  accepts 
his  cousin  as  his  cousin — theoretically ;  but  he  accepts  the 
provision-dealer  as  a  provision-dealer — practically.  The 
two  things  don't  conflict  in  his  mind  because  his  mind  is 
a  mind  of  conceptions — not  of  realities.  He's  faithful  to 
his  training  in  thinking  that  by  stating  a  relation  you  can 
shirk  the  need  for  dealing  with  it." 

"My  word,  Dad!  There's  some  fine  confused  think- 
ing there!"  said  Louis,  with  a  rather  superior  manner. 
He  was  terribly  hurt;  his  hands  were  trembling,  and  his 
lips  were  set  in  the  smile  of  one  who  has  failed  and  is 
too  proud  to  show  his  despair.  His  father's  unexpected 
and  undignified  tirade  had  wounded  his  pride.  It  was 
with  a  painful  effort  that  he  sought  still  to  control  his 


LOUIS  49 

voice.  "I  thought  I  was  talking  horse  sense — neither 
emotionalism  nor  intellectualism.  I  really  don't  under- 
stand you.  Mother's  only  afraid  of  the  Lampes  and  the 
Calumnies — not  of  any  decent  Beckwithians,  like  that 
nice  little  Toppett  woman.  I  wasn't  laying  down  a  gen- 
eral law.  Though  I  do  think,  I  admit,  that  general  laws 
can  be  stated — I  mean,  I  don't  understand  your  dislike 
of  general  propositions,  so  long  as  they're  not  the  usual 
Oxford  tosh  .  .  ." 

"Yes  .  .  .  It's  I  who  am  being  the  weak  person,"  Mrs. 
Vechantor  said  apologetically,  overwhelmed  by  this  sud- 
den irruption  of  temperament  on  the  part  of  her  men- 
folk. "I  shall  find  a  way.  Of  course  I  shall  find  one." 

"Not  by  means,"  said  her  husband,  "of  Louis's  eluci- 
dations." He  was  clouded.  His  colour  had  gone  down. 
A  quick  angry  shame  had  risen  in  his  heart.  He  was 
ashamed  of  himself  because  he  had  offended  his  own 
taste.  He  had  been  cantankerous;  and  he  wished  he  had 
not  been  so.  But  his  hostility  to  Louis  remained.  Louis, 
bereft  of  his  coolness  by  the  passionate  emotion  lying 
deep  and  burning  in  his  indignant  heart,  blundered  on, 
trying  with  a  boy's  obstinate  pride  not  to  show  his  hurt. 

"You  see,  mother's  thinking  that  as  a  woman,  and  as 
a  cousin,  she  wants  to  do  all  she  can  for  .  .  .  cousin 
William's  wife  .  .  ." 

Every  time  Louis  said,  with  a  kind  of  bravado  that  was 
offensive  to  his  parents,  the  name  "cousin  William," 
both  his  father  and  his  mother  winced.  He  continued  r 

"But  with  a  grocer's  wife  she  has  to  face  all  sorts  of 
impertinences  from  every  side.  That's  why  I  say:  'Do 
nothing.'  As  for  my  snobbery — we're  all  three  of  us 
snobs  this  evening;  but  that's  because  this  has  taken  us 
by  surprise.  Individually  we  could  manage  it  all  right. 
I'm  sure  we  could — each  one  of  us!  Even  Dad!  As 
I've  said :  there's  no  real  difficulty.  Mother  simply  has 


50  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

to  make  up  her  mind  that  these  Vechantors  are  here  in 
quality  of  grocers;  and  their  social  or  family  relation- 
ships don't  arise.  There's  neither  Socialism  nor  religi- 
osity in  that,  as  far  as  I  can  see."  He  was  still  trembling, 
and  his  voice  warmed  and  quivered  as  he  deliberately 
steered  once  more  into  the  zone  of  danger. 

"There's  the  vicious  separation  of  constituents," 
grumbled  his  father  awkwardly.  "I  never  said  you  were 
a  sentimentalist.  That  you've  been  saved  from,  I  hope. 
But  you  think  that  by  analysing  a  difficulty  you  have 
solved  it." 

"Oh,  that's  Cambridge;  not  Oxford,"  Louis  could  noti 
resist  saying. 

"It's  common  to  educated  young  men,"  retorted  his 
father.  "Your  mother  sees  that  William  Vechantor  is 
a  man  before  he's  a  Vechantor  or  a  grocer.  That's 
what  you  believe  your  own  discovery  to  be.  But  she 
sees  also  that  in  all  probability  he  and  his  wife  will  have1 
great  difficulties  when  they  move  into  a  new  country 
district." 

"They'd  have  exactly  the  same  difficulties  if  their 
name  was  Jones,"  obstinately  said  Louis. 

"Quite  so.  But  if  their  name  were  Jones  they  wouldn't 
be  our  cousins." 

"Well,  that's  sentimentality!"  Louis  exclaimed.  "If 
ever  anything  was !" 

"Not  at  all.     Noblesse  oblige." 

Mrs.  Vechantor  shook  her  pretty  old  head  reprovingly 
at  them,  dreading  another  combat. 

I  don't  think  either  of  you  is  coming  very  well  out 
of  this  squabbling,"  she  said  gently.     "You'd  far  better  • 
give  it  up.     I  think,  Emanuel,  that  you're  in  the  wrong, 
because  you  attacked  Louis.     Besides,  you're  the  elder." 

Emanuel  turned  sharply  to  his  son,  shooting  that 
dark  glance  at  him  from  beneath  sullen  brows. 


LOUIS  51 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "We'll  discuss  your  shortcom- 
ings at  another  time."  And  he  seated  himself  at  last  by 
the  fire  and  picked  up  the  evening  paper  that  had  been 
warming  there.  As  he  read  there  was  heard  from  him, 
from  time  to  time,  so  that  they  knew  the  problem  still 
to  be  working  in  his  mind,  a  sharp  sigh  that  once  or 
twice  developed  into  a  yawn. 

ii 

At  last  it  was  night.  The  long  evening  in  the  warm 
drawing-room  was  at  an  end.  Louis  was  free  to  be 
alone.  He  was  left  there  when  the  others  went  to  bed, 
standing  by  the  fire  and  looking  at  his  rather  strikingly- 
embroidered  slippers.  His  attitude  then  was  one  of 
perfect  nonchalance,  which  deceived  his  parents;  but  it 
changed  as  soon  as  they  were  gone.  He  followed  them 
almost  immediately,  going  to  his  own  bedroom  upon 
the  first  floor.  From  the  window  he  could  see  that  the 
snowfall  had  ceased.  The  garden  lay  before  him  buried 
in  white.  Above,  seeming  very  near,  was  a  lowering 
opacity  of  blue-black  cloud.  Across  open  ground  a 
strong  wind  blew,  shaking  little  tufts  and  douches  of 
snow  from  the  arms  of  the  trees.  There  was  no  light 
except  the  reflection  from  his  own  room  as  he  drew 
up  the  blind  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  All  in 
Beckwith  was  sleeping  or  was  behind  closed  doors. 
There  was  no  sound  but  the  faint  whir  of  the  seeking 
wind,  and  sometimes  a  fluttering  thud  as  the  wind  over- 
threw a  large  deposit  of  snow.  The  scene  had  a  strange 
beauty,  without  comfort  or  tenderness.  It  chilled  him. 

Yet  his  heart  was  burning,  passionate  ejaculations 
were  framing  themselves  in  his  mind  and  upon  his 
tongue.  Turning  quickly  from  the  window  he  went  to 
stand  moodily  by  the  fire,  smoking  cigarette  after  ciga- 


52  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

rette  in  a  vague  state  of  revolt.  His  father's  biting  words 
had  been  hard  enough  to  bear,  because  they  shattered  the 
fabric  of  his  own  self-respect ;  but  still  harder  was  the 
fact  that  these  words  were  the  expression  of  thoughts 
long  held.  That  was  what  hurt ! 

Louis  at  the  age  of  twenty-six  could  look  back  upon 
a  very  contented  and  uneventful  life.  He  had  never 
been,  physically,  very  strong;  and  although  he  had  never 
shirked  games  and  boy  friends  he  had  never  been  very 
adventurous.  The  house,  the  garden,  his  lessons,  his 
after-reading,  had  filled  his  days  and  developed  his  love 
of  home.  He  had  not  been  to  a  public-school;  but  at 
nineteen  he  had  been  sent  to  Oxford,  where  he  made  a 
number  of  not  very  permanent  friendships,  fell  into  and 
out  of  successive  fashions  in  talk  and  mental  attitude, 
took  his  degree,  and  spent  his  time  with  a  kind  of  care- 
less happiness.  He  had  not  to  think  of  future  career,  be- 
cause it  was  inevitable  that  he  should  take  his  place  in 
his  father's  business.  So  he  had  written  a  few  poems, 
collected  a  few  prints,  read  the  works  of  a  good  many 
modern  authors,  and  dabbled  pleasantly  in  whatever  at- 
tracted him.  Since  his  entry  into  the  business  three 
years  before,  Louis  had  continued  to  dabble  in  political 
literature  and  in  general  literature.  He  could  give  rea- 
sons for  liking  or  disliking  a  picture  or  a  poem,  went  to 
the  theatre  (where  he  preferred  to  see  plays  with  some 
literary  interest),  talked  a  good  deal  with  such  of  his 
surviving  Oxford  acquaintances  as  fell  in  his  path,  ob- 
served rather  acutely,  and  continued  to  be  without  ambi- 
tion. At  home  he  talked  little.  He  was  a  different 
young  man  altogether.  In  Beckwith  he  was  quiet,  and 
was  considered  by  the  young  persons  of  the  district  to 
be  "deep."  And  as  he  was  thoughtful,  but  not  intro- 
spective, he  knew  very  little  about  himself. 

Suddenly  to  be  called  a  parrot,  therefore,   and  the 


LOUIS  53 

product  of  successive  environments,  was  the  greatest 
shock  he  could  have  had.  The  blow  had  come  from  an 
unexpected  hand.  He  had  thought  that  no  understand- 
ing could  be  more  perfect  than  that  existing  between  his! 
father  and  himself.  That  had  been  proved  to  be  a  false 
idea,  and  he  had  the  feeling  of  being  lost.  For  a  time 
he  was  quite  bewildered,  aching  with  the  sense  of  failure. 

Louis  began  slowly  to  realise  the  true  sources  of  his 
father's  exasperation.  His  father  was  a  solid  Conserva- 
tive, disbelieving  in  political  aims,  supporting  the  locaf 
Conservative  member  but  all  the  time  knowing  that  when 
a  man  gets  to  the  club  at  Westminster  its  pervasive 
warmth  reconciles  all  differences  of  belief.  His  father, 
in  fact,  was  at  his  age  essentially  a  Pyrrhonist.  He  be4 
lieved  in  nothing  at  all.  He  had  come  to  regard  as  im- 
portant only  his  own  status  in  Beckwith,  because  that 
flattered  his  vanity.  He  was  as  contemptuous  of  Beck- 
with as  anybody  could  have  been;  but  he  prized  the 
respect  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  While  he  despised 
them,  he  conformed  with  rigid  punctiliousness  to  Beck- 
with's  standards  of  behaviour.  Louis  saw  that  clearly 
at  last. 

Had  Louis  been  so  agnostic  as  to  view  all  things  with 
unconcern,  excepting  only  this  one  question  of  local 
status,  he  would,  he  felt,  have  commended  himself  wholly 
to  his  father.  Instead,  he  had  learnt  to  prize  certain 
principles,  with  all  the  naive  velocity  of  youth.  That 
readiness  for  illusion  irritated  his  father.  It  struck  him, 
evidently,  as  callow,  enthusiastic.  He  despised  it.  The 
very  silences  in  which  Louis  had  buried  his  ideals  had 
given  offence,  as  indicating  stubbornness  and  fanaticism. 
Louis's  blood  stirred.  Again  and  again  he  came  round 
to  a  fresh  recognition  of  the  real  nature  of  the  shock  he 
had  received — the  understanding  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  that  his  father  was  a  completely  different  person 


54  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

from  himself.  A  less  fine  and  perceptive  person  than  he 
had  believed.  He  had  felt  such  perfect  trust  and  such  a 
candid  love  and  admiration  for  this  older  man  with  more 
than  his  own  comprehension.  And  now  he  saw  that  his 
father,  like  any  other  commonplace  critic,  busily  adding 
this  little  piece  of  ingenuousness  or  disingenuousness  to 
that,  always  at  face  value,  had  misread  his  whole  char- 
acter. Where  Louis  had  counted  upon  his  father's  love 
and  understanding  as  a  solvent  he  now  felt  that  there 
had  been  all  the  time  only  cold  point-to-point  criticism — 
the  criticism  of  a  shrewd  but  unperceptive  spirit.  It  was 
a  blow. 

The  loneliness  that  seized  Louis  at  this  moment  was 
terrible.  He  was  shaken  and  mortified.  Wherever  he 
turned  he  saw  at  this  moment  only  stupid  misunderstand- 
ing. In  all  Beckwith  there  was  not  a  man  or  a  woman 
to  whom  he  could  confide  his  present  chagrin  and  thereby 
obtain  relief.  In  all  England,  he  felt.  That  quick  reali- 
sation, which  all  very  sensitive  men  and  women  feel  inter- 
mittently throughout  their  lives,  had  an  extraordinary 
effect  upon  Louis's  whole  attitude  to  his  neighbours. 
The  kindness,  which  perhaps  was  only  indifference,  that 
he  had  hitherto  felt  for  those  surrounding  him,  was 
suddenly  and  passionately  destroyed.  Hatred,  bizarre 
and  without  measure,  sprang  up  in  his  heart  for  Beck- 
with and  for  all  it  represented  in  his  life.  It  was  a  dread-1 
ful  moment  of  realisation,  of  change.  A  deep  sigh  shook 
Louis.  He  closed  his  eyes.  His  face  was  white  and 
strained.  Hereafter  he  would  feel  differently.  Never, 
never  would  he  again  feel  as  he  had  felt  until  this  evening. 

"Oh  God!"  he  cried.  "What  a  fool  .  .  .  what  a  fool 
I've  been  not  to  see  it  before!" 

Ashamed  of  having  been  carried  to  such  vehemence, 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  stooping  and  knocking  at  the 


LOUIS  55 

log  that  burned  upon  his  fire.  Dull,  heavy  sparks  flew; 
and  the  log's  nest  was  quite  black.  It  was  past  one 
o'clock.  He  was  very  pale,  and  was  trembling  slightly; 
but  his  mouth  was  firmly  closed. 


CHAPTER  IV:  THE  PARTY 


IN  the  morning  Louis  slept  late.  He  had  slept  like 
a  stone,  and  he  awoke  unrefreshed;  for  the  nervous 
strain  of  his  suppressed  rage  and  its  sequel  of  embittered 
dismay  had  exhausted  him  as  nothing  else  could  have 
done.  Upon  arising,  he  felt  heavy  and  stifled;  for  a 
thaw  had  set  in  and  the  morning  was  humid.  From 
his  window  he  saw  the  sunken  black  spots  in  the  melting 
snow,  the  trees  clear  of  whiteness,  the  hedges  and  bushes 
dingy.  With  burning  eyes  he  gazed  upon  the  scene, 
finding  it  repulsive.  It  intensified  his  mood  of  disquiet. 
He  was  glad  he  would  not  see  his  father  at  breakfast. 
Such  a  meeting,  such  a  journey  as  they  made  together 
once  a  week,  would  have  been  a  further  distress.  Louis 
was  morbid  with  his  distaste,  hating  everything. 

From  breakfast  he  hurried  to  catch  his  train,  his  feet 
slushing  through  the  snow,  and  leaving  as  a  track  sod- 
den impressions  of  his  boots.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
wind,  but  only  a  soft,  shivering  humidity  in  the  air — 
neither  cold  nor  warm.  As  he  ran  down  the  path  to 
the  station  his  train  was  coming  in,  grinding  and  rum- 
bling over  the  low  bridge  across  the  road;  and  he  was 
glad  to  take  advantage  of  this  fact  and  avoid  his  cus- 
tomary fellow-travellers.  Nevertheless,  once  he  was  in 
the  train  his  unhappiness  continued,  for  the  surprise  of 
his  father's  criticism  had  been  too  great  to  pass  off  in  a 

56 


THE  PARTY  57 

night  or  to  be  distracted  by  newspaper  headlines,  however 
ingenious. 

Louis  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  While 
his  thoughts  had  been  busy  the  train  had  neared  the  out- 
skirts of  London.  Already  it  was  trundling  past  the 
familiar  districts,  ugly  and  melancholy,  overhung  with 
a  drab  snow-mist,  saturated  with  the  melted  snow,  and 
miserable  with  its  general  disastrous  air  of  porous  bricks 
and  leaky  drain-pipes.  It  made  a  lamentable  back- 
ground for  his  own  harassed  recollections.  It  drove  them 
in.  He  began  to  feel  the  first  slow  gropings  of  a  head- 
ache. His  burning  lids  dropped  in  long  stupefying 
reliefs  over  his  eyes. 

And  all  for  a  few  words !  Yes ;  but  words  that  brought, 
an  unpleasant  awakening  and  made  a  difference  to  his 
whole  life,  because  they  awoke  new  impulses  and  new 
recognitions  within  him.  Louis  did  not  seem  to  the 
clerks  at  his  office  to  be  an  older  man  than  the  Louis  they 
had  seen  the  night  before.  They  bobbed  up  at  his  ar- 
rival, signalling  to  each  other  with  jerked  heads  the 
fact  that  he  was  there,  called  "Good  morning,"  and  fell 
back  to  their  work  like  so  many  mechanical  toys.  They 
would  only  have  noticed  a  violent  change  in  his  outward 
appearance ;  and  there  was  no  sign  of  that,  although  Louis 
to  himself  felt  aged  by  immeasurable  time.  Seeing  them 
so  clearly  the  same  as  usual,  so  unremarking  of  the  crisis 
which  had  occurred  in  his  own  life,  Louis  had  a  curious 
thought.  It  came  to  him  to  think,  "I  suppose  I  look 
the  same.  I  suppose  I  am  the  same,  though  I  feel  so 
different.  How  entirely  unknown  they  are  to  me.  Be- 
tween last  night  and  this  morning  any  of  them  might 
have  forged  a  name,  or  seduced  a  girl,  or  killed  some- 
body. .  .  .  And  nobody  here  could  tell.  We  should 
never  hear  of  it  until  long  afterwards.  There's  nothing 


58  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

to  judge  by.  ...  How  little  one  really  knows  about 
people  one  sees  like  this  every  day !" 

He  felt  a  stranger  to  all  men,  solitary  within  himself. 


11 

That  mood  lasted  several  days — the  mood  of  rather 
morbid  self -discovery; — but  it  grew  weaker  as  nature 
reasserted  itself.  Louis  was  not  built  to  continue  for  long 
in  such  a  state  of  mind.  But  he  did  change  inwardly 
thenceforward.  He  was  quite  right  in  thinking  that  he 
would  never  again  be  as  he  had  been  before;  but  the 
awakening  had  been  salutary.  His  manner  had  always 
been  reserved;  and  there  was  no  outward  change.  But 
for  a  time  he  was  much  more  emotional  than  he  had  been 
— inwardly  emotional  and  outwardly  ironic.  He  was 
more  ironic,  more  observant,  less  juvenile;  and  was  yet 
sometimes  quickly  moved  by  things  which  earlier  would 
have  left  him  merely  interested.  He  became  impatient; 
but  his  perception  constrained  his  impatience,  and  it  there- 
fore was  rarely  seen. 

Only  his  mother  saw  the  change,  and  saw  the  sudden 
exasperations,  without  linking  them  on  to  the  scene  with 
his  father.  She  had  thought  that  a  passing  disagreement 
and  had  not  been  a  witness  of  Louis's  suffering.  During 
the  days  preceding  Christmas  she  noticed  this  impatience 
of  his,  and  anxiously  observed  his  colour  rise  and  ebb  at 
passing  difficulties.  She  understood  very  swiftly  that 
he  was  in  an  abnormal  state;  but  with  all  her  sympathy 
she  went  astray  in  her  interpretation;  so  that,  instead 
of  learning  the  truth  by  a  memory  of  that  peculiar  eve- 
ning, she  cast  little  glances  among  the  three  Hughes  girls 
who  had  walked  across  the  common  on  the  afternoon  of 
Boxing-day  to  ask  Louis  to  come  to  tea,  to  their  party. 
That  was  why  Mrs.  Vechantor  went  wrong  in  her  read- 


THE  PARTY  59 

ing  of  the  situation.  She  looked  at  Adela  Hughes  and 
Judith  Hughes  and  Veronica  Hughes,  and  she  thought 
all  of  them  so  attractive  that  Louis's  slight  air  of  embar- 
rassment might  have  been  due  to  a  cause  generally  reck- 
oned with  in  youthful  distempers. 

Mrs.  Vechantor  hoped  it  might  be  Veronica  Hughes. 
She  preferred  Veronica,  who  was  very  fair  and  very 
dainty,  and  who  looked  delightful  in  her  fur  cap  and 
short  fur  coat.  There  was  a  lovely  dainty  flush  upon 
her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  and  her  teeth 
glistened  as  she  spoke.  She  was  altogether  charming. 
From  Veronica  Mrs.  Vechantor  turned  to  Judith,  who, 
like  her  father,  was  dark.  Judith's  were  those  polished 
chocolate  brown  eyes  which  are  hard  to  read;  and  Mrs. 
Vechantor  was  not  wholly  at  ease  with  her  because  she 
thought  Judith  possibly  rather  secretive.  She  thought 
Judith  might  be  a  girl  to  have  clandestine  meetings  with 
an  unsuitable  young  man,  or  to  read  those  books  by  Have- 
lock  Ellis  which  are  generally  ignored  in  Beckwith. 
There  remained  Adela,  who  was  as  fair  as  Veronica, 
but  less  piquante :  Veronica  had  round  dimpling  cheeks ; 
but  Adela  was  thin  in  face,  more  dignified,  rather  older 
(for  Veronica  was  the  youngest).  Mrs.  Vechantor 
would  have  preferred  Adela  to  Judith;  for  Adela  had  a 
very  pretty  laugh,  and  seemed  extremely  candid  and  with- 
out artifice.  Such  was  Mrs.  Vechantor's  first  thought  of 
these  three  girls.  She  began  hereafter  to  observe  them 
more  narrowly.  She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  now, 
trying  to  fathom  the  depths  of  each.  It  was  impossible. 
Each  had  the  Beckwithian  air  of  jovial  frankness  with 
young  males,  a  kind  of  modern  camaraderie  that  deceives 
only  the  very  elderly  woman,  and  sometimes  doesn't  even 
succeed  with  her.  They  presented  an  unreadable  front 
now  to  Mrs.  Vechantor.  All  were  more  vivacious  in 


60  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Louis's  presence ;  not  one  of  them  seemed  more  than  the 
others  to  attract  him  or  to  wish  to  do  so.  They  all 
laughed  and  chattered  and  teased  him  in  a  sort  of  pretty 
boyishness  that  was  always  a  long  distance  from  over- 
familiarity,  and  that  was  warranted  by  a  long  acquain- 
tance dating  from  days  of  childhood.  It  was  as  though 
they  acted  together,  with  a  corporate  interest  in  him. 

Could  she  be  wrong?  Mrs.  Vechantor  asked  herself. 
"Dear  me !"  she  thought.  "How  unlike  girls  are  nowa- 
days to  what  they  were.  It's  as  if  they  .  .  .  And  yet  it's 
quite  impossible  that  they  should  really  do  that  .  .  ." 
She  put  aside  an  unpleasant  thought.  Surely  they 
only  led  a  different,  a  physically  more  healthy,  kind  of  life. 
The  convention  was  different.  Perhaps,  thought  Mrs. 
Vechantor,  girls  didn't  tru^t  women  as  they  used  to  do. 
That  brought  her  round  again  to  the  uncomfortable 
thought  which  she  had  dismissed  earlier.  She  felt  that 
perhaps  the  exercise,  in  hardening  the  body,  might  pos- 
sibly have  hardened  the  soul.  To  her — for  she  would  not 
pursue  her  doubt  to  the  uncomfortable  end  from  which 
she  had  shied — to  her,  then,  it  came  to  make  a  remark 
that  Louis  had  made  a  week  earlier.  "How  mysterious 
people  are !"  she  thought  timidly.  "How  hard  it  is  nowa- 
days to  get  past  that  .  .  ."  The  horrible  word  flashed 
into  her  mind  again.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  three 
Hughes  girls,  in  shaking  hands  with  her  as  they  carried 
Louis  off  with  them,  all  offered  the  same  curious  hard 
inner  surface.  In  their  eyes  she  read  lively  pleasure,  and 
triumph;  and  then  that  common,  universal  "something" 
which  she  did  not  dare  to  define  even  to  herself. 

When  they  had  gone,  and  Mrs.  Vechantor  had  heard 
the  gate  shut  behind  them,  she  sat  still  in  her  chair,  smiling 
with  pleasure  at  the  gaiety  of  their  visit,  and  her  pleasure 
in  the  change  for  Louis.  And  then,  gradually,  a  little 


THE  PARTY  61 

chill  began  to  spread  through  her;  and  she  felt  vaguely 
unhappy. 

"I'm  an  absurd  old  thing,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Shame- 
fully absurd,  and  contemptibly  old-fashioned  and  senti- 
mental." She  moved  again,  and  sat  nearer  the  fire.  The 
old  clock  chimed  its  beautiful  silvery  "ting"  for  half- 
past  three;  and  Mrs.  Vechantor  sat  looking  into  the  red 
glow.  Her  face  had  grown  serious.  She  was  thinking 
intently.  "I  can't  keep  him  always,"  she  was  thinking. 
"And  I  shouldn't  want  to.  I  want  to  see  him  happy.  If 
he  were  happy  I  shouldn't  mind  who  his  wife  was.  But 
I  wish  .  .  ."  For  a  time  she  was  lost  in  reveries.  All 
sorts  of  memories  and  hopes  came  and  went  like  little 
Spring  airs  as  she  sat  listening  to  the  subdued  cracking 
and  whispering  of  the  fire.  The  fire  seemed  to  tell  her  so 
much,  like  a  busy,  rapid,  inexhaustible  book  of  thoughts 
and  echoes.  It  told  her  of  her  own  childhood,  and  of 
her  marriage ;  it  told  her  of  Louis  from  his  earliest  days. 
The  memories  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  They  were 
so  many,  so  crowded,  so  sweet  to  con  over  in  her  hours 
of  solitude.  And  the  fire  helped  Mrs.  Vechantor  to 
recall  the  three  girls  in  whose  company  Louis  was  now 
crossing  the  common.  It  was  as  though,  sitting  here  in 
the  fire's  hushing,  she  could  see  those  three  faces  at 
leisure,  and  look  deep  into  those  mystifying  eyes.  Ana 
she  turned  from  each  in  turn,  puzzled  and  vaguely  un- 
happy, back  to  the  others,  to  and  fro  among  the  three 
sisters.  The  fire  whispered  on,  and  Mrs.  Vechantor's 
memories  and  far-flung  wonderings  continued.  A  fear 
had  clutched  her  heart,  a  fear  that  was  born  of  this  re- 
newed contemplation  of  the  three  faces.  Mrs.  Vechantor 
tremblingly  raised  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  tried 
to  smile  to  herself.  "I  do  so  hope  he'll  be  happy  .  .  .  my 
dearie  .  .  ."  she  thought;  not  framing  the  words,  but 
hearing  them,  it  seemed,  in  the  movement  of  the  fire's 


32  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

steady  consumption.  "If  only  I  could  be  sure  about 
them  .  .  .  about  one  of  them.  But  all  ...  all  the 
same!"  She  couldn't  bear  the  thought.  In  each  pair  of 
eyes,  down  below  the  emotion  of  the  moment,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  came  to  impassable  places ;  not  reserves, 
not  the  lovely  shrinking  shynesses  that  she  would  so 
have  adored;  but  something  she  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  in  association  with  Louis.  The  dreadful  word  re- 
curred to  her.  "If  only  there  didn't  seem  something 
...  I  don't  like  to  call  it  ...  watchful  .  .  .  rather 
calculating!"  cried  the  unhappy  woman  aloud.  "In  all 
of  them.  Coldly  watching,  and  shrewd  .  .  .  Oh,  if  I 
could  only  read  down  deep  into  hearts!"  she  thought. 
"What  I'd  give!" 

She  was  shaken  by  a  sudden  spasm  of  hatred  for  the 
three  girls.  Especially  she  hated  Veronica,  whose  smile 
had  become,  in  memory,  so  fixed  that  the  bright  eyes 
seemed  bright  with  hardness. 

iii 

As  they  went  across  the  common,  already  misty  at  the 
farther  edge  in  the  premature  dusk  of  a  winter  after- 
noon, Louis  had  Veronica  upon  his  left  and  Adela  upon 
his  right.  Judith  was  farther  away,  upon  the  other  side 
of  Adela,  seeming  to  walk  by  herself,  although  she  was 
turned  towards  the  others  and  threw  a  word  into  the 
conversation  from  time  to  time.  With  such  a  bevy  Louis 
could  hardly  have  failed  to  show  vivacity,  to  forget  en- 
tirely the  gnawing  pride  and  discontent  in  his  bosom.  He 
looked  from  one  pretty  smiling  face  to  the  other,  and  .-•> 
was  as  cheerful  as  they. 

"It's  really  a  great  score  for  us,"  Veronica  said,  "to  be 
bringing  you  home  like  this.  We  were  afraid  our  party 
would  be  very  dull,  because  our  cousins,  the  Verulam- 


THE  PARTY  63 

Pinks,  had  sent  us  word  this  morning  that  they  all  had 
the  mumps,  and  couldn't  come." 

"Isn't  it  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  .  .  ."  Adela  was 
saying;  when  Judith  added: 

"At  Christmas-time,  especially." 

"I've  no  doubt  they  deserved  it,"  Veronica  continued. 

"Oh,  Vera !"  protested  Adela.    "That's  too  bad !" 

"No;  really,  I  expect  they've  been  eating  too  much, 
or  something.  What  is  it  causes  mumps,  I  wonder? 
D'you  know,  Louis?"  He  didn't.  Judith  supplied  a 
sort  of  information. 

"It's  generally  infection,  my  child." 

"They  haven't  been  near  us !"  Adela  hastened  to  assure 
Louis.  "I  mean,  there's  no  danger  from  us.  We're  quite 
free  from  any  tendency  to  mumps.  Aren't  we,  Judy?" 

"Yes ;  it  doesn't  spread  to  cousins.  However,  they've 
all  got  it,  right  enough." 

"Of  course,  it  may  not  be  true  at  all.  Perhaps  they 
didn't  want  to  come!"  Veronica  gaily  said.  "There's 
always  that  sort  of  thing  in  families.  I  mean,  cousins. 
They  always  hate  each  other.  Have  you  noticed?" 

"Oh,  Vera!"  protested  Adela.  "You  are  a  beast! 
They're  really  most  awfully  nice  people,  Louis,  and 
they're  frightfully  fond  of  coming  over  to  see  us.  Haven't 
you  ever  seen  them?  They're  all  a  sort  of  sandy  col- 
our. But  you  see  they  couldn't  very  well  come  and  give 
our  party  the  mumps.  It  wouldn't  be  fair." 

"Still,  you'll  admit,"  added  Judith,  following  up  the 
malign  suggestion  of  her  younger  sister,  "it's  rather  pe- 
culiar that  they  should  all  have  it  at  the  same  time. 
These  things  generally  take  a  day  or  two  to  get  about, 
don't  they  ?  I  must  say  I  think  it's  a  bit  suspicious  .  .  . 
happening  so  suddenly !" 

"It  depends  on  who  your  visitors  are,"  Louis  said 
gently,  as  he  was  wondering  himself. 


64  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Well:  there's  .  .  .  Who  shall  we  tell  him  first?" 
They  consulted  each  other,  laughing,  with  raised  brows, 
and  framed  initials.  "Well,  there's  Alice  Deadwood. 
She's  home  for  Christmas,  so  we  had  to  ask  her.  D'you 
like  her?" 

"Oh !"  interrupted  Judith,  before  Louis  could  commit 
himself  to  a  liking,  and  while  he  was  trying  to  recall  Alice 
Deadwood.  "She's  so  stuck  up.  She  thinks  nobody's 
good  enough  for  her.  She  interrupts  you  all  the  time 

with "  Her  voice  trailed  off,  apparently  at  some 

warning  glance. 

"Judy !"  cried  Adela.    "Don't  be  beastly !" 

"I  hardly  know  her,"  Louis  remarked,  having  com- 
pleted the  ransacking  of  his  memory.  "You  don't  seem 
to  have  begun  very  well." 

"Well :  and  then  there's  the  Daunton  boy  .  .  ." 

"But  he's  been  doing  someth "  Again  Judith  was 

apparently  checked.  She  broke  into  a  laugh.  They  all 
began  to  walk  with  a  more  rapid,  more  virtuous,  step 
across  the  darkening  common.  "Well,"  Judith  added 
defiantly.  "So  he  has!" 

"I  think  you're  perfectly  disgusting,  Judy,"  Veronica 
said,  a  little  steely  glint  in  her  bright  eyes  which  Louis 
did  not  notice.  "He's  done  nothing  bad.  Only  weak  and 
silly." 

"No,"  added  Adela.  "He's  been  caught  by  somebody. 
Somebody  not  nice." 

"I  hadn't  heard  of  that,"  Louis  remarked  interestedly. 

"It's  not  nice,"  Veronica  said.  "You  oughtn't  to  talk 
about  it." 

"Ph !  He's  only  a  kid,"  Judith  put  in.  "Some  girl  in 
a  tea-place  or  an  office  has  made  him  propose  to  her. 
That's  all  it  is,  Louis.  Only  Vera's  such  a  little  prig." 

"You  know  I'm  not!"  Veronica's  teeth  closed  with  a 
snap. 


THE  PARTY  65 

"But  that's  most  awfully  fascinating,"  Louis  said. 

"It's  hardly  a  thing  to  talk  about."  Adela  held  her 
head  virtuously  high.  "Oh,  but  it's  too  funny  to  hear 
mother  and  Mrs.  Daunton  talking  about  it.  You  see, 
she  found  a  letter  from  this  girl  .  .  ." 

"Full  of  swarmy  sentiment!"  Judith  interpolated. 

"Saying  .  .  .  what  was  it?  Awfully  funny !  Saying 
nobody  had  ever  loved  her  before,  and  he  was  all  her 
whole  soul.  Eric  Daunton!  Fancy  telling  a  boy  that!" 

"Perhaps  it  was  true!"  Louis  felt  suddenly  indignant. 
A  little  hot  fire  shot  through  him  at  Adela's  tone  of  con-' 
tempt  for  such  candour.  There  was  an  amazed  protest. 

"True!"  cried  Adela.  "Not  with  a  girl  of  that  sort. 
Of  course,  you  wouldn't  understand.  That's  the  way 
men  get  caught.  A  waitress,  I  think  she  was  ...  or  in 
a  sh  .  .  .  I  forget  what  she  was.  But  just  fancy  what 
an  absurd  thing  to  say.  That  nobody  had  ever  .  .  . 
cared  for  her.  .  .  ." 

"Tell  me,  why  absurd?"  begged  Louis. 

The  girls  exchanged  glances  of  amused  pity  for  his 
ignorance.  To  them  it  was  quite  altogether  too  ridicu- 
lous. They  seemed  curiously  robust,  experienced,  mature 
in  the  nuances  of  sex  relationship.  In  Beckwith  unmar- 
ried girls  know  that  there  are  things  men  should  not  know 
about  them.  One  of  these  things  is  the  extent  of  their 
personal  experience  of  love,  and  lovers.  Louis  wondered 
if  he  would  ever  be  so  consumedly  wise  in  affairs  as  they. 
How  could  he  have  been  ?  He  was  not  a  woman,  judging 
another  woman  in  the  light  of  an  established  Beckwith 
convention.  To  him  it  was  not  disgraceful  to  admit 
that  one  has  not  been  loved  before,  that  one  is  ignorant 
of  the  implications  of  love. 

"My  poor  lad!"  Veronica  said,  in  a  pitying  voice  of 
sententiousness.  "You  don't  seem  to  understand  these 
things.  It's  not  to  be  expected.  You're  only  a  boy. 


66  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

But  it's  not  a  nice  subject,  and  we'd  better  go  on  with  our 
tale.  Well,  then,  there's  Mabel  and  Sydney  Dumar- 
esque.  You  know  them.  Mabel's  a  very  nice  girl  .  .  ." 

"She's  not  very  pretty,  is  she?"  objected  Louis,  rather 
grumblingly. 

"She's-a-ctear !"  said  the  three  Hughes  girls  in  one 
voice  of  passionate  loyalty  to  the  unprepossessing  de- 
spised. Then  Judith  added  candidly:  "Of  course,  she 
has  got  rather  protruding  teeth." 

Veronica  resumed: 

"And  then  there's  your  friend  Miss  Lampe."  Louis 
stopped  dead.  "What's  the  matter?"  he  was  asked. 

"Miss  Lampe !"  he  cried  confusedly.  Then,  recovering 
himself,  and  blustering :  "Isn't  she  enough  to  make  a  man 
pull  up  suddenly?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean !"  Adela  protested.  "I 
suppose  you  think  it's  clever !  She's  most  awfully  good- 
natured  .  .  ."  As  Louis  remained  silent  under  this  pre- 
posterous claim,  Adela  hurried  on.  "And  little  Irene 
Corntoft.  She's  only  sixteen;  but  she's  a  perfect  darling, 
and  she  plays  like  an  angel  on  the  clarinet." 

"But  what  a  horrible  instrument  for  an  angel  to 
choose,"  Louis  whispered.  "I  thought  they  had  harps." 
He  was  ignored. 

"And  Mrs.  Callum,"  pursued  Adela. 

"As  well  as  Miss  Lampe?"  gasped  Louis,  with  a  shiver. 
"Of  course  I  know  she's  a  most  wonderfully  sweet-na- 
tured  person." 

"Isn't  he  perfectly  dreadful !"  they  said.  Adela  added  : 
"He's  so  critical."  That  is  in  Beckwith  a  very  deadly 
thing  to  say  about  anybody.  It  is  like  saying  that  he  is 
a  vegetarian. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  explained  Veronica.  "They 
really  are  a  pair  of  old  cats,  you  know."  She  was  quite 


THE  PARTY  67 

marvellously  frank,  because  she  knew  that  there  could  be 
no  harm  in  admitting  before  Louis  a  thing  that  every- 
body in  Beckwith  secretly  knew. 

"Oh,  Vera !"  Adela  cried.  "Upon  my  word !"  Adela 
was  upon  an  altogether  different  tack.  Her  role  in  the 
Hughes  family  was  that  of  the  kind  eldest  sister,  very 
sweet  and  gentle,  who  never  said  a  thoughtlessly  bitter 
thing.  Beckwith  ladies  said :  "Adela's  so  gentle :  one 
never  hears  her  say  an  unkind  thing."  It  had  become  her 
private  vanity:  she  went  to  monstrous  lengths  to  retain 
such  saintly  repute. 

Veronica  laughed — a  lovely  trilling  laugh  that  seemed 
to  turn  Adela's  rebuke  into  something  naively  ridiculous. 
The  sound  of  her  laugh  shot  through  and  through  Louis, 
as  unexpected  music,  at  night,  across  water,  might  have 
done.  His  lips  parted  in  the  darkness. 

They  all  appeared  thoroughly  to  have  enjoyed  their 
walk  across  the  common  to  the  Hughes's  home;  and 
they  tramped  into  the  house  in  boisterous  high-spirits. 
Without  taking  off  her  hat  and  coat,  Veronica  went  into 
the  drawing-room,  crying :  "He's  come !  We've  brought 
him!" 

Mrs.  Hughes  hurried  to  greet  Louis — a  stout  lady  with 
a  florid  face,  her  gown  a  purple  silk  which  made  one 
sightless  after  a  moment's  paralysed  contemplation.  She 
welcomed  Louis  with  a  raised  forefinger  of  rebuke. 

"Such  a  stranger!"  she  exclaimed,  laughing  a  hearty 
clucking  laugh  which  came  only  from  the  throat.  "Where 
have  you  been  hiding  all  this  time  ?  It's  too  bad  of  you ! 
Really  it  is !"  With  a  lowered  voice,  still  holding  his  hand, 
she  went  on :  "Here's  Vera  been  wondering  what's  come 
to  you  after  all  this  long  time!  No  music,  no  talk! 
.We've  missed  you.  I  do  so  wish  you'd  come  over  more 
often. 


68  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


IV 


The  drawing-room,  as  Louis  entered,  was  half-full  of 
Beckwithians  of  various  ages.  It  was  a  characteristic 
gathering.  Behind,  with  deep  cuffs  showing,  were  the 
older  men,  friends  of  Mr.  Hughes  or  friends  of  the  fam- 
ily, grave  or  rubicund  men,  for  the  most  part  of  middle- 
age.  Grouped  about  the  room  were  the  more  individu- 
alised guests — Mrs.  Callum,  and  Miss  Lampe,  and  the 
Dumaresques,  the  Dauntons,  little  Irene  Corntoft,  and 
so  on.  Louis  gave  a  swift  glance  round  the  room.  All 
eyes  were  upon  him,  and  he  had  a  rather  grim  pleasure 
in  thinking  that  he  heard  Miss  Lampe  smother  the  word 
"shop-keeper"  as  he  passed  the  open  door.  There  was 
no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  the  advent  of  this  party  of 
four,  walking  sturdily  across  the  common,  had  been  re- 
corded; and  that  the  sight  of  himself  had  led  to  a  hur- 
ried re-canvassing  of  the  Vechantor  sensation  among 
those  present.  Standing  there  in  the  centre  of  all  these 
figures,  well-groomed  and  debonair,  he  gratified  their 
sight  and  moved  them  all  to  a  higher  kind  of  pleasure. 
They  saw  in  him  the  embodiment  of  all  that  was  most 
distinguished  in  Beckwith  social  circles.  All  of  them 
acknowledged  the  Vechantors. 

After  the  record  given  by  the  Hughes  girls  the  actual 
party  gave  him  no  surprises.  He  singled  out  Mrs.  Callum, 
a  rather  thin  woman  of  fifty-five,  a  widow,  who  wore 
spectacles  and  seemed  always  upon  the  verge  of  com- 
mitting herself  to  a  calculated  indiscretion.  She  was,* 
very  angular,  with  a  severe  face,  and  she  had  a  way  of 
saying  in  a  harsh,  swan-like  voice :-  "I'm  afraid  I've  .  .  . 
said  more  than  I  ought."  It  generally  happened  that  she 
spoke  truly,  and  her  tongue  was  a  good  deal  feared.  She 
had  (a  most  unpleasant  trick  of  seeing  everything — from 


THE  PARTY  69 

a  blush  to  a  cracked  cup  that  any  hostess  might  keep  to 
herself  behind  the  tea-cosy.  She  was  in  the  habit  of 
saying:  "There's  not  much  that  escapes  my  eye."  She 
was,  Louis  thought,  a  most  unpleasant  woman.  He  had 
never  by  any  chance  heard  her  say  a  kind  word,  with- 
out qualification,  about  anybody. 

Next  to  Mrs.  Callum  sat  Miss  Lampe,  in  her  black 
poplin  dress,  wearing  a  thin  gold  chain  and  a  black  and 
white  cameo  brooch.  She  was  very  small,  and  wrinkled, 
with  close-pursed  lips  and  eyes  like  boot-buttons  which 
had  caught  the  sun.  She  and  Mrs.  Callum  were  true 
cronies.  They  knew  together,  in  secret  (and  not  always, 
unfortunately,  in  secret),  all  about  everybody  in  Beck- 
with.  They  were  always  together,  great  tea-drinkers  and 
gossips,  and  their  interest  was  insatiable.  They  con- 
stantly turned  to  each  other,  seeing  the  same  things,  and 
marking  them  as  one  marks  linen,  with  a  little  hot  pres- 
sure to  bring  out  the  full  significance  of  the  lettering. 
That  was  the  way  they  managed  to  miss  nothing  that 
went  on,  for  they  never  were  overcome  by  a  babble  of 
voices,  but  kept  their  heads  and  their  nerve  in  every  cir- 
cumstance. 

Behind  them,  at  a  distance,  talking  to  an  ugly  girl  with 
protruding  teeth,  was  a  young  man  of  about  five-and- 
twenty,  rather  boyish-looking,  with  a  white  face  and  a 
furtive  look.  This  was  Eric  Daunton,  who  had  com- 
mitted an  indiscretion  in  falling  wrongly  in  love.  Louis 
looked  at  him  with  a  new  interest,  and  was  pleased  with 
his  appearance,  but  not  with  his  manner.  Daunton  had 
a  high  brow,  and  a  good  face;  but  his  eyes  were  guilty, 
and  his  mouth  petulant.  He  looked  as  if  he  might  be 
easily  "rattled,"  and  his  moody  expression  made  Louis 
shake  his  head.  Poor  devil !  He'd  been  having  a  rough 
time,  and  his  nerve  was  going.  He  looked  as  though  he 
were  all  the  time  swearing  under  his  breath. 


70  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Young  Dumaresque  was  a  very  different  person.  He 
was  short  and  stout,  Jewish-looking  and  subtly  vulgar. 
His  tie  was  bright;  he  wore  rings;  his  dark  face,  with 
thick  features  and  a  cast  of  complacency,  was  not  at  first 
sight  attractive.  He  had  none  of  Daunton's  air  of  young- 
manly  pathos.  Nevertheless,  Louis  believed  him  to  be  a 
good  sort,  and  he  had  money,  which  he  did  not  ostenta- 
tiously throw  about.  Daunton,  Dumaresque,  and  Louis 
were  the  three  most  presentable  young  men  in  Beckwith. 

Miss  Dead  wood  and  Irene  Corntoft,  with  Mabel  Duma- 
resque, the  ugly  girl  with  the  heart  of  gold,  completed  the 
foreign  representatives  of  youth  at  the  Hughes  party. 
Miss  Deadwood  was  a  refined-looking  girl  without  any 
distinction.  Irene  Corntoft,  a  conceited  little  creature 
with  a  plump  buff-coloured  face  and  a  short  tail  of  dis- 
agreeable hair,  was  only  invited  on  account  of  her  virtu- 
osity as  a  clarinetist,  and  she  was  trying  to  behave  as  a 
grown-up.  She  retained  the  attributes  of  childhood — 
greediness  and  bad-manners  naively  exhibited — and 
Louis  did  not  care  to  look  at  her  for  more  than  a  passing 
instant,  as  she  made  him  feel  rather  sick. 

That  was  the  personnel  of  the  Hughes  party. 


The  Hughes  girls,  having  hurried  upstairs  to  throw  off 
their  out-of-door  clothes,  were  returned  by  the  time  Louis 
had  completed  his  inventory  of  those  present;  and  a 
few  minutes  later  everybody  trooped  into  a  much  colder 
back  room,  where  tea  was  laid  out  with  Beckwithian 
sumptuousness.  There  was  now  a  general  rearrangement 
of  partners.  Louis,  standing  idly  .aside,  and  watching 
certain  manoeuvres,  noticed  that  Daunton  was  unsuccess- 
fully trying  to  evade  Judith  Hughes.  Judy,  the  dark 
sister,  was  almost  coaxingly  showing  him  a  chair  beside 


THE  PARTY  71 

her  own,  which  he  at  last  ungraciously  took.  Mrs.  Daun- 
ton  watched  the  arrangement  with  sharp  interest,  and 
Louis  saw  her  harsh  expression  give  place  to  a  motherly 
beam. 

Dumaresque,  upon  the  other  hand,  wanted,  it  appeared, 
to  sit  near  Veronica.  Louis  saw  this  with  interest;  but 
he  thought  it  singular  that  Dumaresque  should  be  placed 
upon  the  other  side  of  Judy  and  next  to  Irene  Corntoft. 
Such  manipulation,  or  such  accident  (as  he  supposed  it), 
made  his  own  position,  when  that  was  subtly  indicated, 
all  the  more  fortunate.  He  found  himself  between  Adela 
and  Veronica.  He  had  not  the  least  notion  of  the  means 
by  which  this  happy  circumstance  had  been  reached.  All 
he  knew  was  that  Veronica  glanced  at  him  and  then 
quickly  at  the  empty  chair  beside  herself. 

Louis  thought  it  all  very  strange  and  interesting.  He 
was  pleased  to  see  that  Miss  Lampe  had  been  engaged  in 
the  same  observation  as  himself.  "There's  a  lot  of  sim- 
ilarity between  Miss  Lampe  and  myself!"  he  thought. 
"How  pleasant  that  both  of  us  should  be  satisfied."  But 
Miss  Lampe's  cogitations  went  much  farther  than  his 
own.  Compared  with  Miss  Lampe,  Louis  was  a  child. 
He  could  only  envy  himself  for  good-fortune,  whereas 
Miss  Lampe  was  engaged  in  settling  his  destiny  and  cal- 
culating the  matrimonial  chances  of  his  two  neighbours. 

Seated  between  two  such  partners,  Louis  forgot  every 
part  of  his  gloom.  He  was  so  near  to  them  that  he  could 
turn  from  one  delicate  fair  face  to  the  other.  He  could 
see  their  wrists  and  their  hands,  and  was  physically  con- 
scious of  the  nearness  of  the  two  prettiest  girls  in  the 
room.  He  was  very  happy,  carelessly  happy,  as  though 
all  life  was  before  him,  as  though  all  this  were  just  part 
of  a  pleasant,  innocent  game,  in  which  one  took  the 
chances  of  the  moment  and  had  no  thought  at  all  for  the 
morrow.  Working,  however,  in  his  consciousness  were 


72  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

subtle  influences  which  were  to  show  later.  Adela  and 
Veronica  were  wiser  than  he. 

Across  the  room  Judith  tried  vainly  to  thaw  young 
Daunton  by  artless  grace.  Louis  watched  them  at  odd 
moments.  He  had  no  thoughts  linking  them  in  his  mind. 
He  simply  looked  at  them  as  two  young  people  at  cross- 
purposes.  He  was  feeling  very  sorry  for  Daunton,  sitting 
there  under  the  benevolent  eye  of  Mrs.  Daunton.  He 
began  to  dislike  Mrs.  Daunton.  He  felt  there  was  some- 
thing sinister  about  her  benevolence.  He  imagined  her 
as  an  iron  hand  within  a  clumsy  crimson  plush  glove. 
While  he  was  thinking  that,  he  seemed  for  a  moment  to 
lose  consciousness.  The  tea-table  chatter  sounded  like 
the  confused  roaring  of  a  crowd  some  distance  away.  It 
was  in  that  moment  of  unconsciousness  that  Louis  saw 
the  party  with  hostility.  Their  laughter  seemed  to  him 
like  the  grinning  of  skulls.  He  had  a  horror  of  them. 
And  then  all  the  sounds  once  again  disentangled  them- 
selves, became  staccato;  and  he  was — not  a  disembodied 
and  cruel  spectator — but  Louis  Vechantor  at  a  party  of 
Beckwithians. 

But  it  had  been  a  very  odd  experience,  that  moment 
of  hallucination.  Louis  had  never  fainted,  or  he  would 
have  known  that  a  curious  sweet  remoteness  precedes  the 
total  loss  of  sensation.  It  was  just  that  feeling  of  being 
apart  and  contemplative  that  had  assailed  him.  He  never 
again  had  it  in  the  course  of  his  life:  it  was  a  tiny  aber- 
ration, like  a  singing  in  the  ears,  or  what  some  mystical 
people  have  taken  for  a  moment  of  spiritual  revelation. 
Louis  remembered  it  all  his  days. 


VI 

One  inconvenience  felt  by  several  people  was  the  pres- 
ence at  this  party  of  both  Louis  and  young  Daunton.     It 


THE  PARTY  73 

prevented  them  from  discussing  the  two  really  important' 
topics  of  Beckwith.  So  they  fell  back  upon  the  Verulam- 
Pinks  and  their  catastrophic  mumps-attack.  Everybody 
laughed  tumultuously.  All  the  girls  felt  their  pretty 
throats.  Louis  had  never  seen  so  many  pretty  throats. 
He  wished,  though,  that  some  of  the  hands  had  been 
smaller.  He  looked  down.  Adela's  hands  were  not  bad 
.  .  .  Veronica's  fingers  were  rather  square-tipped.  Lean- 
ing back  a  little  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  delicate  line 
of  her  cheek  and  throat.  She  really  was  tremendously 
pretty.  Her  blouse  was  pretty;  and  the  way  her  hair 
grew  and  was  brushed  .  .  .  Louis  thought  she  was  by 
far  the  prettiest  girl  there.  Adela  was  pretty,  too;  but 
she  had  not  the  piquancy  of  Veronica.  Her  part  was  less 
shining,  less  radiant ;  she  was  the  quieter  girl,  the  gentle 
companion.  While  he  was  looking — not  obtrusively — 
at  Adela,  Veronica  turned  to  him  with  a  perfectly  gem- 
like  smile  that  took  his  breath  away.  She  put  her  head 
nearer,  and  he  bent  his.  It  gave  him  a  curious  tingling 
sensation  to  feel  that  their  faces  were  so  close. 

"Do  look  at  Mrs.  Callum,"  she  whispered.  "Not  now 
...  in  a  minute." 

He  felt  a  faint  disappointment  at  the  fact  that  the 
message  delivered  by  the  smiling  lips  should  have  been 
so  unromantic;  but  he  looked.  Mrs.  Callum  had  taken 
a  chocolate  that  contained  a  piece  of  nougat,  and  this 
was  causing  all  her  teeth  to  move  about  at  one  time  in 
a  very  disconcerting  manner.  She  could  not  quite  close 
her  mouth,  and  was  publicly  being  punished  for  a  piece 
of  reckless  greediness.  Louis,  frowning  hastily,  looked 
away;  but  he  felt  the  little  tremour  of  convulsive  merri- 
ment that  ran  through  Veronica.  To  her  it  was  a  clear 
source  of  amusement.  It  satisfied  her  instinctive  ani- 
mosity for  Mrs.  Callum,  who  had  once  done  Veronica  a 
bad  turn  over  an  early  flirtation.  It  was  like  a  piece  of 


74  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

justice.  Louis  turned  quickly  to  Adela,  who  was  de- 
murely looking  down  at  her  plate.  He  felt  sure  that  Adela 
also  had  observed  Mrs.  Callum's  tragedy,  and  he  was 
puzzled  at  her  inscrutable  expression.  In  fact  both  his 
neighbours  a  little  perplexed  him.  He  had  no  power  to 
judge  them  in  moods  to  which  he  was  unused. 

The  table  continued  to  rattle  with  the  sound  of  plates 
and  knives  and  spoons;  and  the  merry  voices  went  on 
and  on;  and  at  last  the  clock  struck  six.  That  was  the 
sign  for  a  return  to  the  drawing-room.  They  all  rose. 
Veronica  was  pressed  against  Louis  as  they  went  forward. 
Looking  down,  he  saw  again  how  extremely  dainty  she 
was,  how  long  her  lashes  were,  how  the  bright  eyes  glis- 
tened. It  seemed  to  him  that  her  every  movement  was 
marked  with  vivacity.  He  felt  a  wish  that  she  should 
take  his  arm;  but  as  they  passed  out  of  the  door  she  was 
turned  to  him  again,  smiling  mischievously  and  whisper- 
ing "Wasn't  it  awful!"  so  that  her  shoulder  was  once 
more  against  his  breast  and  her  elbow  for  the  merest 
instant  in  the  hollow  of  his  protecting  hand. 

vii 

In  the  drawing-room  music  was  instantly  begun.  There 
were  some  slight  frownings  among  the  three  Hughes 
girls,  who  all  played  the  piano;  and  at  last  Veronica, 
placing  her  handkerchief  upon  bass  notes  that  she  would 
never  need,  made  an  undersong  for  the  conversation. 
Louis  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  she  played,  and  it 
did  not  greatly  interest  him;  so  he  watched  the  pianist's 
slender  figure  instead  of  listening  with  all  his  attention. 
He  was  glad  she  was  so  straight,  even  at  the  piano; 
she  sat  upon  the  piano-stool  as  erect  as  ever.  Her  touch 
was  good:  she  had  "attack."  And'then,  when  the  piece 
was  finished  and  voices  were  lowered,  Veronica  swung 
round  upon  the  stool  and  looked  at  him  with  so  droll 


THE  PARTY  75 

an  air  of  mischievousness  that  he  smiled  involuntarily. 
The  next  ten  minutes  were  given  to  the  clarinet,  with 
Adela  accompanying. 

"She's  a  better  accompanist  than  I  am,"  Veronica  said 
to  Louis. 

"You  don't  try,  perhaps,"  he  answered,  half -seriously. 
"You  ought  to." 

"Well,  bring  some  songs  over  one  evening.  .  .  .  Will 
you  ?"  asked  Veronica.  "It's  so  long  since  you've  been." 

Louis  reddened  faintly. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "It's  very  nice  of  you."  There 
really  seemed  nothing  else  to  be  done  in  face  of  so  direct 
a  request. 

Veronica  made  no  reply,  but  her  face  showed  that  his 
response,  however  lacking  in  eagerness,  was  acceptable 
and  expected.  He  felt  that  she  was  pleased  with  him, 
and  he  wanted  to  please  her  now.  She  was  not  looking 
at  Louis.  She  was  looking  at  Judith,  who  was  talking 
interestedly  to  the  boy  Dumaresque.  A  curious  fixity 
came  into  Veronica's  expression,  something  like  the 
slightest  possible  frown,  or  air  of  disapproval  of  such  a 
conference.  She  had  become  quieter,  more  thoughtful: 
her  voice  was  lower,  meant  only  for  Louis. 

"Have  you  heard  about  Mr.  Dumaresque?"  she  went 
on,  as  though  they  had  not  spoken  of  accompaniments. 
"Mabel  told  us.  He's  been  told  he's  dying.  ...  A 
cheerful  sort  of  thing,  isn't  it?" 

"That  chap?"  Louis  indicated  the  youth  who  was 
talking  to  Judith. 

"No,  his  father.  He's  not  here.  I  should  think  Syd 
Dumaresque  would  live  for  ever.  I  never  did  like  that 
boy,  somehow.  There's  something  wooden  about  him. 
If  you  went  mad  he'd  simply  kick  a  hassock.  He  wouldn't 
know  what  to  do." 

Louis  was  pleased  by  the  flattery  of  her  intimate  tone. 


76  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

He  thought,  however,  that  the  youth  might  have  some 
good  points,  such  as  honesty  and  its  kindred  dulnesses, 
so  he  demurred  to  her  implied  disparagement. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  know  myself,"  he  said. 
"So  I  hope  you  won't.  ...  I  thought  he  looked  quite 
amiable  and  decent !"  Then,  hastening  to  get  away  f  rorrt 
the  curious  topic,  he  proceeded.  "I  rather  like  Daunton." 

"Do  you?"  Veronica  opened  her  eyes  a  little,  as  if  in 
surprise,  and  as  if  it  were  necessary  to  her  that  his  liking- 
should  be  questioned.  She  shifted  her  glance  to  the 
object  of  his  remark.  They  seemed  very  much  alone  now, 
sitting  there  away  from  the  other  people,  while  music 
went  endlessly  on  at  the  piano.  Louis,  following  her  eyes, 
also  contemplated  Daunton,  and  felt  pleasantly  at  rest 
sitting  beside  Veronica.  She  had  a  very  great  attractive- 
ness for  him  this  evening,  for  he  had  been  heart-sick  for 
days,  and  she  was  consoling  him.  Veronica,  after  this 
silence,  returned  to  the  subject  of  Daunton.  "I'm  sorry 
for  him,"  she  continued;  "but  he  must  have  been  an 
absolute  idiot  to  get  entangled  with  that  girl." 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  persisted  Louis  challengingly. 

"Good  gracious,  no!  You  don't  have  to.  I  didn't 
know  you  were  so  romantic,  Louis." 

"I  am,  rather,"  he  said. 

"I  can  tell.  Or  you  wouldn't  be  so  silly.  You  don't 
know  anything  about  life." 

"I  should  have  thought,  as  much  as  you  do."  He  was 
not  impatient,  but  his  eyes  hardened.  She  retorted. 

"Girls  always  know  more  than  boys  .  .  .  about  life." 

Louis  made  a  little  laughing  sound  that  made  her  turn 
slightly  away  from  him. 

"They  hear  a  lot  of  subterranean  gossip,"  he  suggested. 
"Do  they  know  anything  at  all?" 

"They  know  what  you  can  do,  and  what  you  can't  do. 
They  know  how  easily  boys  can  be  caught." 


THE  PARTY  77 

"By  other  girls?" 

"By  girls  who  aren't  nice  girls." 

"Why  shouldn't  this  girl  love  Daunton?  And  if  he 
wants  her  why  shouldn't  he  have  her?" 

Veronica  became  rather  ruffled  at  his  persistent  stupid- 
ity. 

"Because  .  .  ."  she  said.  Then,  quickly:  "Oh,  it 
doesn't  matter.  If  you  like,  because  I  don't  want  him  to." 

A  shock  ran  through  Louis,  almost  imperceptibly. 
What  did  she  mean?  And  what  did  his  own  feeling  of 
shock  mean  ? 

"But,"  he  proceeded,  in  a  level  tone,  "it  isn't  any  action 
of  yours  that's  preventing  him.  .  .  .  It's  that  benevolent 
old  mother  who  steps  in  and  puts  a  stop  to  it.  And  that's 
an  interference  with  his  freedom." 

"You  can't  do  what  you  like,"  Veronica  said  obsti- 
nately. "Nobody  can.  It  wouldn't  be  good  for  them." 

"I  wish  we  might  be  allowed  to  try,  sometimes,"  he 
ventured.  "Just  supposing  you  were  wrong  about  that 
girl.  Supposing  she  were  a  good  girl.  Supposing  she'd 
make  Daunton  happy.  Put  yourself  in  her  place — I  mean, 
suppose  you  lived  in  other  circumstances.  .  .  .  D'you 
think  your  heart  wouldn't  matter?" 

Veronica  turned  back.  She  seemed  moved  to  a  kind  of 
sincerity. 

"D'you  think  we're  not  all  wanting  something  that's  not 
good  for  us?"  she  said  thickly.  "It's  the  wickedness  of 
our  natures.  And  supposing  after  a  year  he  found  out 
he'd  made  a  mistake,  that  she  was  just  pretty  and  stupid, 
or  that  she  drank  ..." 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  Louis  said,  with  equal  ur- 
gency, "is  why  one  always  assumes  in  Beckwith  that  girls 
of  a  slightly  lower  class  are  stupid,  or  dishonest,  or  drunk- 
en. ...  Why  should  we  suppose  that?  Do  you  really 


78  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

think  Beckwith  girls  are  all  above  stupidity  and  dis- 
honesty ?" 

Veronica  went  white. 

"It's  no  good  talking  about  it,"  she  whispered  unstead- 
ily. "You  oughtn't  to  talk  like  that,  anyway.  If  mother 
heard  you  she'd  .  .  .  Besides,  it's  not  right  to  mix 
classes.  They  can't  understand  each  other.  Very  likely 
it  wouldn't  be  her  fault,  if  she  did  drink.  He'd  neglect 
her,  very  likely;  and  go  after  .  .  .  another  girl." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Both  were  ruffled,  and  a 
hostility  had  crept  into  their  bearing. 

"Would  another  girl — what  you  call  a  'nice  girl' — 
take  him  up  after  he'd  .  .  .  well,  shall  we  say  'lost' 
this  one?  Would  her  pride  allow  her  to  take  over  his 
affection  as  a  going  concern?" 

Louis  observed  the  resentment  in  Veronica's  eyes.  He 
was  recovering  his  own  temper.  She  was  so  extremely 
pretty,  and  the  play  of  her  expression  fascinated  him. 
When  she  was  at  all  moved  her  lips  seemed  to  tighten 
over  her  little  teeth. 

"I  shall  begin  to  hate  you  in  a  minute,"  she  whispered, 
half  in  earnest.  He  reassured  her. 

"No  you  won't ;  because  you  know  there's  nobody  else 
here  that  I  could  talk  to  like  this." 

Veronica's  face  changed  again,  electrically.  It  was  as 
though  a  spark  made  her  eyes  flame. 

"Not  Adela?"  she  demanded  abruptly.  Louis  ob- 
served her  with  wonderment.  It  seemed  such  an  odd 
inquiry  to  come  after  their  talk  of  this  evening.  What 
had  Adela  to  do  with  it? 

"Oh  no,"  he  answered.  "I'm  quite  sure  she's  made  up 
her  mind." 

"What  about?" 

"Daunton.  Everything."  It  was  Veronica's  turn  to 
smile  at  a  naivete.  She  was  quite  recovered. 


THE  PARTY  79 

"Silly  boy.  So  have  I,"  she  retorted.  "There's  no 
shaking  me.  Because  I  know  I'm  right." 

"Well,"  said  Louis  frankly.  "I  think  you  might  be 
shaken.  .  .  ." 

"Is  that  what  you're  counting  on?"  Veronica  was 
sparkling  now,  daring  him,  using  all  her  charm. 

"Not  altogether,"  he  admitted.  "But  you  haven't 
answered  my  question  about  what  the  nice  girl  would  do." 

Veronica  began  to  frown  again.  She  remembered,  per- 
haps, the  indiscretion  of  allowing  oneself  too  great  a 
warmth  of  feeling  in  sight  of  so  many  curious  Beck- 
withians. 

"I  forget  what  you  said,"  she  answered  untruthfully. 
"But,  anyway,  a  nice  girl  .  .  ."  There  was  a  pause. 

"Well  ?"  asked  Louis.  "Do  tell  me  what  she'd  do.  I'm 
all  impatience  to  hear." 

"Oh,  don't  let's  talk  any  more  about  it.  Or  him.  It's 
no  good  arguing.  You  only  get  excited,  and  you  don't 
change  anything.  If  people  all  thought  for  themselves  it 
would  be  too  dreadfully  unsettling.  Of  course  Eric  must 
do  what  his  people  want  him  to.  He  owes  them  every- 
thing. Besides  .  .  .  I'm  sure  he  will  do  what  he's  told. 
He  always  has  done,  all  his  life  .  .  ."  Her  mouth  was 
rather  bitterly  curved  at  the  last  words. 

"I  wonder  what  you  mean,"  Louis  said  venturesomely. 
"I  know  so  little  about  him." 

Veronica,  in  reply,  looked  directly  at  Louis  for  an 
linstant.  Their  eyes  met — not  quite  full,  but  in  an  ex- 
changed glance  still  more  suggestive  in  its  intimacy  and 
perilousness. 

"Perhaps  I'll  tell  you  .  .  .  some  day,"  Veronica  said, 
in  a  curious  voice. 


80  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


vin 

What  did  she  mean?  He  could  not  guess;  but  his 
pulses  quickened  at  the  implication.  As  she  sat  at  the 
piano,  or  moved  about  the  room,  or  stood  within  his  view, 
there  was  no  doubt  that  he  felt  her  challenge.  She  had 
something  in  her  nature  that  piqued  and  intrigued  him. 
Was  there  any  kind  of  relation  between  Veronica  and 
Daunton?  She  had  almost  suggested  it.  Was  that  to 
rouse  a  first  vague  jealousy  in  himself?  He  strove  to 
remember  if  the  names  of  Veronica  and  Daunton  had  ever 
been  coupled.  It  was  then  that  his  aloofness  from  the 
general  life  of  Beckwith  hampered  him.  He  did  not* 
know.  Did  she  want  to  marry  Daunton?  Was  she  a 
girl  so  bent  upon  marriage  that  she  would  not  too  scrupu- 
lously examine  the  integrity  of  her  lover's  affection  ?  And 
if  she  wanted  to  marry  Daunton,  were  not  her  confidences 
to  himself,  the  over-eager  invitations  of  Mrs.  Hughes,  the 
personal  invitation  to  music-practice,  marks  of  another 
inclination?  What  had  her  inquiry — her  sharp  inquiry 
— about  Adela  indicated?  Really,  Louis  was  quite  puz- 
zled at  his  own  interrogations !  They  drove  him  to  Miss 
Lampe ! 

"Well,  Miss  Lampe,"  he  said.  "What  a  lot  has  hap- 
pened since  you  came  to  dinner  with  us!" 

Miss  Lampe,  sitting  in  her  black  dress  in  an  easy  chair 
far  away  from  the  fire,  looked  from  her  shrivelled  face 
with  those  alert  eyes  that  he  so  much  suspected.  But 
those  eyes  were  now  suspicious  of  him,  of  his  tone. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Miss  Lampe  said,  in  her  voluble  man- 
ner. "Such  a  lot  of  things  .  .  ." 

"This  party,  and  the  new  grocer  with  the  curious 
name,  and  Mr.  Dumaresque,  and  the  Daunton  affair," 
Louis  proceeded,  in  his  low,  dry  voice. 


THE  PARTY  81 

Miss  Lampe  quailed  at  his  allusion  to  the  grocer,  and 
she  surveyed  him  hungrily. 

"Poor  Mr.  Dumaresque,"  she  said,  singling  out  that 
name  as  momentarily  safe.  "But  how  did  you  hear  about 
him?  I  thought  it  was  quite  a  secret  .  .  .  quite  a  secret." 

"Ah,  Miss  Lampe,"  Louis  said.  "You'd  hardly  believe 
how  much  I  know  about  Beckwith." 

"Really  .  .  .  really!"  said  Miss  Lampe  expectantly. 
"It's  such  a  change  for  me  to  hear  anything  about  the 
neighbourhood.  Living  so  far  away  from  the  com- 
mon .  .  ." 

"Why,  everything  must  pass  your  house,  Miss  Lampe !" 

Miss  Lampe  knew  that.  She  wanted  to  know  some- 
thing else. 

"I  should  so  much  like  to  know  how  you  heard  about 
Mr.  Dumaresque,  poor  dear  man!  Did  Veronica  tell 
you?" 

"Ah,  you  mustn't  guess!"  Louis  said. 

"What  a  dear  girl  she  is  .  .  ."  hinted  Miss  Lampe. 

"She's  charming,  isn't  she !"  Instinctively  wary,  in  such 
company,  he  added :  "All  three  of  them  are  charming." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes  ..."  Miss  Lampe  said,  as  though  she 
were  reserving  judgment  upon  the  faults  of  all.  "All 
of  them,  of -course,  all  of  them.  I  thought  it  might  have 
been  Veronica  who  told  you,  because  you've  been  talking 
to  her.  ...  I  think  she's  so  sweet.  .  .  .  One  of  the 
sweetest  natures  in  our  little  town,  I  always  say." 

"I'm  sure  she  would  like  to  hear  that  you  thought  so," 
observed  Louis.  "But  Mr.  Dumaresque  is  not  the  only 
person  I  have  heard  about.  I'm  very  sorry  for  him,  of 
course;  or  rather,  I  should  be,  if  I  knew  him.  But  I'm 
really  more  interested  in  Eric  Daunton.  Can  you  tell  me 
exactly  what  it  is  he's  done?" 

"Oh,  very  dreadful  .  .  .  very  painful.  .  .  .  But  you're 
quite  a  gossip,  Mr.  Louis !" 


82  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Aren't  I !  Do  tell  me  all  about  it.  Who  is  the  young 
woman  ?" 

"She's  a  ...  Her  name  is  Ethel  ...  I  don't  know 
her  surname.  Ethel  .  .  .  And  she  is  the  daughter  of 
a  ...  H'm,  h'm  .  .  .  Her  father  is  a  ...  a  small 
.  .  .  tradesman  at  Penge.  ...  It  seems  that  poor  Eric 
met  her — quite  by  accident;  so  she  can't  be  at  all  a  nice 
girl;  and  he's  written  some  most  foolish  letters.  Mrs. 
Daunton  is  quite  anxious,  because  if  the  girl  is  ... 
you  understand  ...  It  might  mean  ..."  Miss  Lampe 
whispered.  "A  law  case,  for  breach  of  promise.  .  .  ." 
Her  eyes  glistened  at  such  a  feverish  prospect 

"Is  Mrs.  Daunton's  objection  to  the  girl,  or  to  the 
fact  that  her  father's  a  tradesman  ?"  asked  Louis. 
,  "Oh,  it's  quite  impossible,  Mr.  Louis.  .  .  .  And  Mrs. 
Daunton  had  so  set  her  heart  on  a  match  with  some  suit- 
able girl  in  the  neighbourhood.  It  would  steady  him  so 
much.  Poor  boy,  I'm  afraid  he  needs  ballast." 

"D'you  mean  he's  always  been  weak-kneed?" 

"Oh  yes.    He's  always  been  fancying  himself  in  love." 

"I  suppose  with  other  unsuitable  girls  .  .  ." 

"Well,  so  young,  you  know.  Or  else  not  what  I  call 
nice  girls.  D'you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Not  his  social  equals." 

"Well,  and  then,"  said  Miss  Lampe,  in  a  very  low  voice. 
"Of  course  the  Hughes  girls  are  very  nice, — they're  dear 
girls.  But  you  know  there  was  that  silly  business  with 
dear  Vera  ..." 

For  a  second  time  that  evening  Louis's  heart  gave  a 
bound.  He  did  not,  however,  move. 

"You  mean,  with  Daunton  .  .  ."  he  said,  as  casually 
as  he  could. 

"Oh  yes  ...  of  course  you  remember.  She  was  only 
sixteen;  and  he  was  about  nineteen.  They  planned  an 
elopement.  So  foolish  and  romantic.  I  remember  crying 


THE  PARTY  83 

at  the  time.  Mrs.  Callum  and  I  were  sitting  in  my  front 
room,  and  you  know  there's  a  lamp-post  outside.  And 
we  saw  the  two  of  them  go  by  to  catch  the  eleven-thirty 
train  at  night.  And  Mrs.  Callum  said  to  me :  'Where  are 
those  children  going  together  at  this  time  of  night  .  .  . 
together?'  We  just  saw  their  faces  as  they  hurried  past. 
It  seemed  so  strange!  So  Mrs.  Callum  went  to  the  station 
while  I  hurried  up  the  lane  to  Mrs.  Hughes.  Mr.  Hughes 
came  down  and  caught  them  just  in  time ;  for  Mrs.  Cal- 
lum walked  up  and  down  the  platform  and  prevented  them 
from  coming  out  of  the  waiting-room,  where  they  were 
hiding.  So  just  as  the  train  was  coming  in  Mr.  Hughes 
arrived — I  stayed  behind,  because  I  didn't  want  to  seem  to 
know  anything  about  it.  And  he  caught  them,  and  took 
Veronica  home.  It  was  very  hard  on  her,  but  it  taught 
her  a  lesson.  What  a  dear  girl  she  is !" 

"But  what  a  sensational  affair !"  Louis  said,  not  look- 
ing at  Miss  Lampe. 

"And  you  see  how  weak  poor  Eric  Daunton  is." 
"He  does  seem  to  be  unlucky  in  his  affairs,"  com- 
mented Louis.    At  which  Miss  Lampe  laughed,  "He,  he, 
he !"  and  looked  affectionately  across  the  room  at  Veron- 
ica, who  was  wondering  what  story  Louis  was  hearing. 

»' 

IX 

At  ten  o'clock  the  party  was  over.  Beckwith  is  always 
early,  and  supper  was  at  half -past  eight.  Miss  Lampe 
had  to  seek  her  home  near  the  railway  station.  Mrs. 
Callum  was  going  back  to  her  cottage  along  the  common, 
just  past  the  High  Street.  The  Dumaresques  were  going 
to  their  big  red-brick  house  in  the  centre  of  the  town. 
Miss  Deadwood  and  the  young  player  upon  the  clarinet 
had  still  farther  to  go.  Eric  Daunton  and  his  mother 
lived  almost  next  door  to  the  Hughes  family.  There  was 


84  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

a  general  dispersal.  Fortunately  an  old  gentleman  was 
going  to  see  Miss  Lampe  home,  as  he  lived  even  farther 
away  than  she  did,  upon  the  farther  side  of  the  railway; 
so  Louis  and  Daunton  took  possession  of  Miss  Deadwood 
and  Irene  Corntoft,  and  their  music-cases;  and  all  gath- 
ered laughing  and  talking  in  the  big  hall.  Louis  had  no 
further  direct  speech  with  Veronica,  and  she  did  not 
offer  to  shake  hands  with  him.  He  noticed  that  she 
shook  hands  with  Daunton,  and  supposed  the  difference 
to  indicate  some  greater  familiarity  at  this  time  with 
himself.  As  he  came  away  Mrs.  Hughes  stopped  him. 
"Now  mind,"  she  said.  "You're  to  come  over  one  eve- 
ning soon.  We  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  any  eve- 
ning. That's  a  promise,  isn't  it!" 

Veronica  said,  close  beside  him  in  the  doorway : 
"Don't  forget  to  bring  some  songs  to  practise!"  He 
looked  down,  but  the  words  had  been  spoken  in  a  low 
tone,  and  she  was  already  turning  away  from  him.  He 
stepped  out  into  the  chilly  air,  under  a  clear  moon  that 
made  the  grass  stand  up  silver  against  the  black  earth. 
The  door  was  closed  behind  him.  The  others  were  wait- 
ing. What  a  curious  evening  it  had  been !  And  it  was 
as  yet  by  no  means  over,  for  the  church  clock  was  only 
then  chiming  a  quarter-past  ten  in  a  sharp  brazen  tone. 
The  notes  cut  the  air,  so  still  was  Beckwith,  and  so  wind- 
less the  night.  He  hurried  after  Daunton  and  the  two 
girls. 


It  was  on  the  way  back  from  the  centre  of  the  town 
that  Daunton  spoke  directly  to  Louis.  They  had  hitherto 
been  walking  in  almost  complete  silence  along  the  deserted 
streets. 

"These  damned  people !"  he  said.  "I'm  sick  of  them 
all." 


THE  PARTY  85 

"I  expect  you  are!"  agreed  Louis  cordially.  "You 
must  have  reason." 

Daunton  walked  beside  him  a  few  paces  without  ac- 
knowledging this  remark.  Then,  suddenly,  he  forsook 
silence,  and  in  a  shaky,  boyish  voice  he  blurted  out  what 
was  in  his  tormented  mind. 

"You've  heard  all  about  me,  I  expect,"  he  said.  "It's 
simply  damnable.  I'd  cut  the  whole  thing  and  clear  out, 
only  I'm  in  my  father's  business  and  I  shouldn't  have  a 
shilling.  They  treat  me  as  if  I  was  a  kid.  I'm  not!  I 
know  this  time  what  I'm  doing.  I  tell  you,  I'm  half 
mad." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do?"  Louis  asked.  "I'm 
awfully  sorry.  I  can  guess  what  a  rotten  time  you're 
having.  You  mustn't  let  yourself  be  overborne  by  all 
this  clatter.  That  is  ...  I  suppose  you're  strong 
enough  to  follow  your  own  course,  if  you've  made  up 
your  mind  to  it." 

"Of  course  it's  the  mater,"  cried  Daunton.  "She  some- 
how found  a  letter.  Well,  I  know  there  were  spelling 
mistakes  in  it.  What  does  that  matter?  All  the  girls  in 
Beckwith  spell  venomous  with  two  e's.  It's  a  thing 
they  know  all  about  .  .  .  the  little  cats.  She's  a  real 
girl  ...  I  mean,  somebody.  ...  I  can't  explain  it  to 
you.  Oh,  I'm  mad!  I'm  mad!  Just  because  I  met  her 
in  the  train,  and  spoke  to  her!  She's  so  lovely  .  .  . 
and  beastly  unhappy  at  home,  because  she's  not  under- 
stood. They  think  she's  an  adventuress.  They  say  I'm  a 
boy  who's  taken  in.  Mater  talks  about  the  disgrace  of  it. 
.  .  .  My  word,  she's  an  actress !  To  hear  her  talk  about 
the  duty  one  owes,  the  bitterest  day  of  her  life,  and  so 
on.  ...  And  there's  not  a  soul  in  Beckwith  who  cares 
two  straws  about  me  or  about  Ethel  as  human  beings. 
We're  to  do  as  we're  told.  In  case,  I  suppose,  the  won- 
derful Daunton  blood  is  contaminated.  Why,  good  God! 


86  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

you  know  that  we're  a  part  of  the  coal  firm — Daunton, 
Daunton,  and  Dare — don't  you  ?  Everybody  knows.  But 
because  we've  washed  the  sweat  off  our  faces  we're 
more  select  than  the  Cecils.  And  she's  a  real  girl  .  .  . 
not  like  these  stupid  puppets  here  .  .  .  doing  what  their 
mothers  tell  them !  Except  on  the  sly.  I  could  tell  you 
things  about  them.  .  .  .  She's  a  friend,  and  a  mistress, 
and  a  wife.  All  in  one.  She'd  give  the  Beckwith  girls 
points  and  beat  them  at  anything  they  like  to  name.  Any- 
thing !  I  don't  care  what  anybody  says !  But  no !  Mater 
says  it's  'quite  too  impossible' ;  and  she's  pretending  that 
Ethel's  a  common  tart,  who's  snared  me !  The  vulgarity 
of  it !  It  makes  me  sick  to  hear  her !" 

"But  look  here,  old  chap,"  said  Louis.  "You're  of 
age;  your  mother  can  do  nothing  at  all.  You've  got  it 
all  in  your  own  hands.  You  can  do  just  exactly  what  you 
like." 

"I  know.  And  she  knows.  That's  what  makes  her  so 
virulent.  I  tell  you — the  difference  between  the  two  of 
them!  But  I  couldn't  tell  you.  It  makes  me  ashamed. 
But  all  that  doesn't  make  it  any  better.  Surely  you  know 
that  things  aren't  done  by  force.  Practically  they  never 
are.  They're  done  by  making  you  feel  uncomfortable. 
You  feel  you  ought  not  to  do  it.  You're  'cut,'  or  you're 
ruined,  or  humiliated.  You're  not  punished.  They  can't 
do  it.  They'd  like  to  put  you  in  gaol;  but  it  isn't  done. 
They  can  only  compel  you  by  their  opinion.  So  they 
make  you  feel  an  outsider.  I  could  fight  against  an  order ; 
but  this  is  different.  I've  always  been  at  home.  I've 
got  no  resources.  I  owe  everything  to  my  pater.  And 
that's  what  they  work  on!  My  debt.  I  feel  as  if  there 
were  chains  on  me.  I  feel  hopeless !" 

"I  should  get  another  job  at  once,"  Louis  said.  "Any 
sort  of  job,  whatever  it  is." 

"Would    you?"    Daunton    eagerly    clutched    at   that. 


THE  PARTY  87 

"Look  here,  Vechantor — I  know  I'm  a  soft  sort  of  chap. 
Things  have  always  been  too  much  for  me.  But  I've  got 
nobody  to  stand  by  me  .  .  .  except  Ethel.  I've  got  no- 
body who's  said  a  kind  word  to  me  for  three  weeks.  It's 
been  going  on  since  three  weeks  ago.  I  can't  live  with- 
out .  .  .  well,  without  feeling  somebody  believes  in  me. 
I  go  crazy,  and  give  in.  And  I've  sulked  at  home;  and 
felt  mad  and  blustering.  I've  heard  myself  talking  .  .  . 
and  not  believed  what  I  was  saying.  As  though  it  was 
all  false.  I've  meant  it  all — about  not  giving  in.  Every 
word.  It's  been  true;  but  I've  felt  it  wasn't  true.  I've 
felt  it  was  just  grizzling.  Even  when  I  was  saying  the 
finest,  staunchest  things.  But  I've  felt  hopeless — felt  I 
should  have  to  give  in  at  the  end,  simply  because  I've  al- 
ways had  to  give  in.  ...  That's  the  worst  of  it." 

Louis  nodded,  forgetting  that  he  could  not  be  seen. 

"Will  she  marry  you  at  once  ?"  he  demanded. 

"She  won't  until  she's  quite  sure  I  mean  it.  She  saw 
at  once  I  was  wobbling.  I  couldn't  hide  it  from  her, 
though  I  tried.  She's  stronger  than  I  am.  She's  got  me 
sized-up.  The  first  time  I  saw  her  .  .  .  after  this  .  .  . 
after  the  letter,  she  said:  'What's  the  matter?'  Not 
like  that — more  gently  than  that.  She  knew  at  once. 
Of  course  I  raved.  I  said  nothing  should  come  between 
us.  That  was  silly,  and  she  knew  it.  She  cut  right 
through  all  my  heroics.  She  offered  to  let  me  chuck  her. 
She  went  all  different — not  cold,  but  as  though  I  was  a 
child  ...  as  though  she  was  years  older.  Oh,  she's  a 
sport!  She  says  she's  just  as  fond  of  me;  but  she  doesn't 
want  anything  I  don't  want  with  all  my  heart.  I  feel 
they're  both  as  hard  as  nails ;  but  it's  come  to  be  a  ques- 
tion of  choosing  between  them.  It's  my  mother  or  her; 
and  she  won't  have  me  unless  I  make  a  clean  choice. 
That's  what  she  says,  and  I  believe  her.  She's  never  told 


88  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

me  a  lie,  though  she  might  have,  lots  of  times.  .  .  .  Oh, 
lots  of  times !" 

Daunton's  strained  voice,  the  absolute  sincerity  of  his 
confession,  and  the  dreadful  air  of  truth  in  his  account  of 
the  girl's  attitude,  struck  Louis  like  a  poniard.  He  was 
carried  away.  He  saw  Daunton  as  fighting  for  something 
more  precious  than  his  own  life.  He  was  struggling  to 
deserve  the  love  of  the  girl  he  truly  loved.  With  a 
cowardice  that  had  run  through  his  whole  life  still  check- 
ing him  from  being  outright,  he  yet  aspired  to  an  ideal 
courage  that  was  not  his  own. 

"Well,  you  stick  to  her!"  cried  Louis,  in  a  thick,  angry 
voice.  "Stick  to  her.  If  she's  strong  enough  not  to  lose 
her  head  when  she  sees  you  wobbling — not  to  get  hysteri- 
cal and  threatening,  I  mean — you  ought  to  make  sure 
of  her.  She's  a  woman  in  a  thousand.  She'll  be  the  mak- 
ing of  you."  He  was  answering  passionate  sincerity  with 
a  sincerity  as  urgent.  A  wave  of  liking  for  Daunton,  lik- 
ing and  pity,  swept  him  into  vehement  response  to  this 
appeal  for  his  help.  He  was  arrogant  to  all  the  world  in 
his  sympathy  with  Daunton. 

"I  say!"  exclaimed  Daunton,  stopping  in  the  quiet 
street.  "What  a  brick  you  are!"  They  were  shy,  but 
exultant,  both  of  them  moved.  In  daylight  they  could 
not  have  been  so  intimate.  Both  were  transfigured. 

"No,"  said  Louis,  ashamed  to  receive  such  thanks. 
"I'm  not.  I  wish  I  were!  Only  I'm  just  for  the  first 
time  beginning  to  look  about  me  and  take  notice.  I  wish 
I  had  your  chance  of  standing  to  my  guns.  I  envy  you. 
I  wish  I  could  help  you.  Really  help  you." 

"Look  here  .  .  ."  Daunton  drew  him  under  a  lamp- 
post and  brought  from  his  pocket  a  leather  case.  Within 
it  was  a  midget  photograph  of  a  pretty  girl.  It  did  not 
seem  to  Louis  that  she  was  exceptionally  attractive.  The 
face  was  one  which  would  not  have  caught  his  attention 


89 

But  he  found  there  the  honesty  he  was  prepared  to  see. 
He  was  in  the  mood  to  see  only  the  priceless  candour  of  a 
good  woman.  The  two  young  men  pored  upon  the  photo- 
graph in  the  light  of  the  street  lamp,  the  one  devotedly, 
the  other  with  a  kind  of  angry  anti-social  delight  in 
supporting  personal  rebellion. 

"You're  not  a  boy,"  Louis  said  at  last,  his  voice  still 
thrilling  with  temper  and  the  ardour  of  his  new  cham- 
pionship. "If  you  make  a  mistake — I  mean,  if  it  shouldn't 
turn  out  exactly  as  you  planned — at  any  rate  you'll  have 
followed  your  own  conviction.  Not  somebody  else's 
prejudice.  Don't  budge!  Don't  budge  an  inch!" 

"I  say!"  cried  Daunton  delightedly.  "You're  a  real 
pal!  I  can't  tell  you  what  it's  meant  to  me  to  be  able 
to  talk  to  you  like  this — to  have  you  so  decent  about  it. 
If  you  were  in  love  you'd  know  how  I  feel.  But  you'd 
never  be  a  coward,  as  I  am.  You're  not  like  that.  I've 
.  .  .  I  know  I'm  a  fool;  but  I've  .  .  .  I've  always  ad- 
mired you  no  end,  Vechantor.  ..."  He  wavered  there 
in  the  half-light,  his  eyes  glistening,  looking  away  with 
involuntary  shame  at  such  frankness.  For  a  moment  they 
stood  awkwardly  without  speech,  Louis  wonderstruck  at 
such  an  avowal,  but  not  quite  master  enough  of  himself 
to  be  anything  but  moved  by  it.  Then  Daunton  blurted 
out,  like  an  ashamed  schoolboy :  "I  say  .  .  .  excuse  me 
.  .  .  I'm  ever  so  grateful  .  .  .  Don't  think  of  me  as 
anything  but  that.  I'd  like  to  go  on  telling  you  .  .  . 
I'd  like  you  to  tell  me  something  about  yourself  .  .  . 
Only  I  must  get  off  somewhere  and  gloat  over  it  a  bit!" 
He  hung  still,  trembling,  and  his  eyes  shining.  Then, 
with  an  effort,  he  pulled  himself  together.  With  a  fierce 
handshake  he  disappeared  into  the  darkness,  walking 
swiftly,  with  his  head  erect  and  his  arms  swinging. 


90  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


XI 

It  was  then  that  Louis,  in  an  exalted  flurry  of  high 
spirits,  no  less  fervent  because  his  own  happiness  was  not 
involved,  noticed  where  they  had  been  standing.  They 
had  been  standing  directly  opposite  the  shop  of  Peel  the 
grocer.  It  gave  him  a  curious  sensation  to  look  across 
and  see  the  drab-coloured  blinds  and  the  elaborate  gilt 
lettering  over  the  shop-front.  He  continued  quite  still, 
his  heart  beating  quickly  from  the  excitement  of  the 
scene  which  had  just  concluded.  And  then,  to  his  aston- 
ishment, as  he  raised  his  eyes  above  the  shop-front,  he 
saw  that  the  dwelling-room  immediately  over  the  shop 
was  faintly  illumined.  The  light,  which  moved  about, 
and  which  cast  long  pale  shadows,  appeared  to  be  that  of 
a  candle  held  by  somebody  who  was  also  in  motion.  He 
could  see  that  the  walls  of  the  room  were  quite  bare.  He 
remembered,  then,  that  somebody  had  spoken  of  Peel  as 
removing  first  thing  on  Boxing-morning — at  six  o'clock ; 
and  that  he  expected  to  be  away  by  midday.  Then  the 
living  part  of  Peel's  business  premises  was  now  altogether 
empty.  Who  was  walking  there,  with  a  candle,  at  this 
time  of  night? 

Could  it  be  Peel  ?  Had  the  removal  been  a  longer  job 
than  had  been  expected?  Was  it  Peel  and  his  wife  who 
remained,  carefully  examining  their  emptied  rooms  and 
perhaps  collecting  the  last  fragments  for  personal  re- 
moval to  their  new  home  ?  Or  could  it  ...  could  it  pos- 
sibly be  that  the  candle  was  held  at  this  moment  by  the 
new  owner  of  the  business,  his  own  cousin,  the  man 
whose  arrival  in  Beckwith  had  seemed  such  a  calamity, 
had  brought  upon  Louis  that  attack  from  his  father  which 
had  begun  the  change  in  his  outlook  upon  things  in  gen- 


THE  PARTY  91 

eral  ?  Louis  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  standing  there  in 
deep  thought.  He  was  in  quite  a  curious  excitement.  If 
this  were  Peel,  the  matter  had  no  interest  for  him.  If, 
upon  the  other  hand,  it  were  his  cousin,  what  should  he 
do?  It  was  no  sentimentality  that  moved  him;  it  was  a 
conviction  that  lay  deep  in  his  heart.  He  did  not  know 
what  action  his  mother  had  taken  or  would  take  concern- 
ing these  undesirable  relatives.  He  only  knew  that  at  this 
moment,  fresh  from  the  Hughes' s  party  and  all  the  un- 
usual feelings  to  which  it  had  given  rise,  he  felt  in  him 
a  determination  to  do  what  he  considered  right,  to  force 
his  mother's  hand,  to  shame  his  father.  All  that  had 
been  said  during  the  evening  took  its  part  in  this  resolve. 
He  was  filled  with  defiant  contempt  for  Beckwith.  He 
stepped  down  from  the  pavement,  and  across  the  road; 
and  he  found  the  knocker  of  the  door  beside  the  shop. 
Should  he?  What  was  the  hesitation?  Why  should  he 
hesitate  ? 

Louis  knocked. 

The  knock  went  echoing  gently  up  the  bare  boards  of 
the  staircase.  He  could  imagine  the  startled  silence  in 
the  room  above.  He  waited.  After  a  few  moments  he 
heard  heavy  steps  upon  the  stairs.  In  the  glass  fanlight 
above  the  door  he  saw  dim  jerking  lights  and  shadows 
which  showed  that  the  candle — or  a  candle — was  being 
cautiously  brought  to  the  door.  He  braced  himself. 

A  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  a  smallish  stout  man  with  a 
chubby  face  and  a  grey  moustache,  a  man  with  a  broad 
silver  watch  chain  and  a  coloured  shirt,  and  a  pleasant  air 
of  moderate  prosperity,  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  had 
raised  the  candle  to  the  level  of  his  face  so  that  it  might 
shine  upon  the  face  of  the  caller. 

"Good  evening,  sir,"  he  said,  with  civility. 

"Good  evening."  Louis  was  now  very  nervous  and 


92  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

hurried.     "Are  you  .  .  .  are  you  Mr.  William  Vechan- 

tor?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  man  said.     "That  is  my  name." 
"Oh,  look  here,"  cried  Louis.     "Can  I  come  in  half-a- 

minute?    I'm  your  cousin.     I'm  Louis  Vechantor." 


CHAPTER  V:  OVER  THE  SHOP 


AND  when  he  had  said  these  words  Louis  was  struck 
for  an  instant  with  a  kind  of  marvel,  at  finding 
himself  upon  the  doorsteps  of  Peel's  shop,  at  such  an 
hour,  introducing  himself  to  the  cousin  whose  coming  to 
Beckwith  had  appeared  such  a  disaster.  His  marvel, 
however,  disappeared  at  once;  and  he  felt  that  there 
had  never  in  all  his  life  been  a  moment  so  natural  and 
so  right.  The  man  with  the  candle  did  not  make  any  mo- 
tion of  surprise,  except  to  raise  his  candle  a  little  higher. 
Then,  after  a  pause  that  neither  could  have  noticed,  he 
said  in  a  quite  ordinary  and  unbewildered  voice : 

"So  you're  Louis,  are  you?  Come  upstairs  .  .  .  I'm 
afraid  it's  a  bit  bare  yet." 

He  closed  the  door  as  Louis  entered,  and  stamped 
towards  the  stair,  holding  the  candle  so  that  it  gave  his 
cousin  some  help  in  finding  his  way.  Together  they 
mounted  to  the  first  floor. 

"Mum,"  called  William  Vechantor.  "Here's  a  visitor 
for  you." 

As  he  spoke  he  ushered  Louis  into  a  back  room,  where 
there  was  a  meagre  fire,  and  where  a  glass  lamp  stood 
shedding  its  light  beam.  The  room  was  unfurnished,  but 
three  people  were  sitting  round  the  fire  upon  the  three 
up-turned  drawers  of  a  kitchen  dresser.  They  all  looked 
up  with,  as  Louis  thought,  an  air  of  constraint — almost  of 
consternation — at  such  an  intruder.  Louis  stood  in  the 

93 


94  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

doorway,  and  William,  having  blown  out  and  snuffed  the 
candle,  shut  this  door,  facing  them  all. 

In  the  dim  light  Louis  could  see  very  little  of  the  group 
by  the  fire.  The  walls  rose  naked,  in  a  covering  of  dark, 
rather  soiled  paper.  The  mantelpiece  was  empty,  the 
floor  bare.  The  lamp,  standing  upon  a  big  box  by  the 
window,  was  behind  his  cousins,  and  their  faces  were 
lighted  only  by  flickerings  from  the  fire.  One  of  them, 
he  saw,  was  a  small  plump  woman  of  middle  age — clearly 
William's  wife;  and  he  distinguished  a  girl  and  a  boy 
who  stared  at  him  in  a  startled  way.  Both  of  them  rose 
after  a  moment.  The  boy,  he  thought,  might  be  sixteen  ; 
the  girl  was  rather  older.  Neither  was  very  tall.  So 
these  five  people  looked  at  each  other  in  the  semi-dark- 
ness. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  a  strange  time  to  come,"  Louis  began 
awkwardly.  ''But  I  saw  a  light;  and  I  couldn't  resist 
knocking.  My  name's  Louis  Vechantor,  and  I  think  you 
must  all  be  my  cousins." 

"That's  all  right,  Louis,"  said  William  cheerfully. 
"Take  a  drawer,  will  you?" 

He  went  to  the  window  and  brought  the  lamp,  which 
he  placed  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

"Well,  it's  a  surprise,"  said  his  wife.  "And  a  pleasure, 
I'm  sure."  But  the  last  words  followed  rather  mechani- 
cally, so  that  it  needed  a  further  remark  to  give  it  sup- 
port. "A  great  pleasure,"  she  insisted. 

"Yes,"  added  William.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  Louis, 
when  Doll  there  turned  up  your  name  in  the  day-book 
we  got  a  nasty  jar.  Mum  was  in  a  bit  of  a  fright  .  .  . 
weren't  you,  my  dear?  Thought  we'd  put  our  foot  in 
it."  He  turned  suddenly  to  Louis.  "Perhaps  we  have?" 
he  added,  in  a  sort  of  inquiry.  Louis  gave  a  little  nervous 
laugh. 


OVER  THE  SHOP  95 

"Well,"  he  admitted.  "I  believe  you  have,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact." 

The  other  four  exchanged  a  look.  Only  the  boy  squared 
his  jaw. 

"We're  as  good  as  you,"  he  muttered. 

"Bob  down,  Reg.,"  said  his  father.  Louis  turned  with 
a  smile  to  William. 

"It's  given  them  something  to  talk  about,"  he  explained. 

"But  your  pa  and  ma,"  Mrs.  William  said.  "I  wish  we 
hadn't  come !" 

Louis  began  to  laugh.  His  two  elder  cousins  smiled 
at  his  expression. 

"It's  really  awfully  funny,"  he  cried.  "Mind,  I  ought 
to  tell  you  ...  I  don't  know  what  made  me  come  to- 
night. When  we  first  heard  the  news  I  said  we  oughtn't 
to  take  any  notice  of  you.  I  mean,  that  we  ought  to  let 
all  question  of  relationship  be  ignored.  But  you  see  I'm 
the  first  tc  go  against  that.  I  just  couldn't  help  coming. 
I've  been  to  a  party,  and  I'm  on  my  way  home.  And  I 
saw  a  candle,  so  I  simply  crossed  the  street.  .  .  .  And 
here  I  am." 

"Well,  sit  down,  now  you're  here,"  William  urged. 
Louis  sat,  and  the  girl  moved  away  into  the  shadow. 
"Go  on,  Doll,"  her  father  said  sharply. 

"No,  you  .  .  ."  she  cried;  but  after  a  hesitation  re- 
sumed her  seat  upon  the  only  remaining  drawer. 

Louis  looked  across  at  Mrs.  William. 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  she  said;  "but  I  think  you 
were  right.  I've  been  in  an  awful  taking  ever  since  I 
knew." 

"You  have,  Mum ;  you  have,"  William  agreed.  "Well, 
Louis;  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  you  can't  draw 
back  at  this  stage.  Doesn't  do.  And  of  course  the  kids 
are  both  upstarts,  and  they  wanted  banners  all  round  the 


96  SHOPS  AND  PIOUSES 

town  for  a  start  off.    But  we're  going  to  do  without  that, 
for  Alum's  sake." 

At  this  it  seemed  to  Louis  that  the  girl,  who  sat  upon 
the  third  dresser-drawer  immediately  upon  his  left,  gave 
a  slight  and  scornful  laugh.  The  thought  ran  through 
him:  "The  older  ones  are  all  right;  the  children  are  little 
beasts";  but  he  did  not  say  anything  or  give  any  sign 
that  he  had  heard  the  sound. 

"But  all  the  same,"  plaintively  remarked  William's 
wife,  still  crushed  by  her  understanding  of  the  scandal 
they  had  created  in  Beckwith,  "it's  very  hard  on  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Vechantor.  I  wish  we  hadn't  come." 

"You've  been  saying  that  all  the  time,  Mum,"  said  her 
husband. 

"It's  true,"  she  retorted.     "That's  why  I  say  it,  Will." 

"Try  another  record,  old  girl,"  said  William. 

"Or  a  fresh  needle,"  added  Reginald,  clumsily  over- 
emphasising his  father's  figure  of  speech.  But  Reginald 
was  not  to  go  unpunished  for  this  rudeness  to  the  visitor. 

"Bob  down,  Reg.,"  his  father  said.  "Had  enough  of 
little  boys.  He's  only  sixteen,  Louis ;  and  a  bit  bumptious. 
Well,  now;  where  do  we  stand,  eh?  Just  about  where 
we  were,  isn't  it  ?"  Louis  looked  at  him  gratefully. 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  he  said.  "May  I  say  what  I  think? 
It's  this.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned  my  cousins  can  have 
their  banners.  They  can  plaster  the  whole  town  with 
bills.  But  they  won't  hurt  my  mother  or  myself.  They'll 
simply  injure  the  business  and  drive  away  custom;  be- 
cause everybody  will  be  offended.  But  that's  got  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  main  question.  I'm  glad  you've  come.  .  - 
My  father  won't  be.  My  mother  will  be  the  one  to 
suffer." 

"She  mustn't!"  cried  Mrs.  William.  "It's  not  fair  on 
her." 


OVER  THE  SHOP  97 

"Oh,  you  can't  stop  it  now.  It's  too  late.  And  you 
mustn't  think  I've  come  from  her  ...  or  to  pry  on  you ; 
for  that  wouldn't  be  true.  Nor  to  complain.  I  should 
like  to  come  again,  if  I  may.  I  mean,  when  you've  moved 
in.  May  I?" 

"May  he!"  exclaimed  William,  in  his  cheerful  voice. 
"That's  the  tone,  isn't  it,  Mum  ?" 

"I  don't  think  he  ought  to,"  pathetically  said  Mrs. 
William,  in  a  humble  voice. 

"Mum!"  came  in  a  bitter  whisper  from  beside  Louis. 
"Oh!  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  tell  him  at  once  that  we 
don't  want  to  have  anything  .  .  ." 

Louis  turned  to  the  girl,  whose  face  he  could  see  in  the 
lamplight.  It  was  flushed  and  mutinous.  Her  lips  were 
curved  in  an  angry  way,  as  though  she  were  exasperated 
beyond  bearing.  He  essayed  to  finish  her  broken  sen- 
tence. 

"...  to  do  with  me  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"They're  both  tired  out,"  said  Mrs.  William  in  eager 
apology.  "Both  of  them  are." 

"I'm  not !"  cried  Dorothy. 

"Well,  then,  you're  very  ill-mannered."  Her  mother's 
voice  took  a  quick  turn. 

"We  were  quite  happy  before  he  came!"  Dorothy  said 
in  a  suppressed  voice — not  of  shame,  but  of  unbearable 
anger. 

Louis  rose  at  once.    William  put  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Sit  down,  lad,"  he  begged.  "Just  because  we've  been 
gentle  with  your  young  cousins  they're  both  a  bit  bump- 
tious. As  I  told  you.  Doll's  a  good  girl;  but  she's 
one  to  make  a  fuss.  Can't  be  helped.  It's  nature. 
Take  no  notice.  Now  .  .  .  whenever  you  like  to  drop  in 
and  see  us,  I  shall  be  glad.  So'll  Mum.  And  your  mother 
and  father — any  time.  But  if  you  don't  come  .  .  .  See 
what  I  mean?  We  shan't  feel  huffy.  We're  sociable, 


98  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

but  not  social,  if  you  understand  the  distinction.  Mum 
here  can  tell  you  all  .about  the  royal  marriages — who 
married  who  and  whose  daughter  and  sister  the  Princess 
Christian  is.  She  loves  gossip.  She's  got  a  proper  respect 
for  gentry,  has  Mum.  But  the  kids  haven't.  They're  .  .  . 
well,  they're  a  bit  trying.  Too  big  for  their  boots,  if  you 
know  what  I  mean.  And  I've  knocked  about  a  bit.  I've 
seen  the  world.  And  I'm  a  provision-dealer  and  don't 
call  myself  a  grocer  outside  the  family  circle.  And  if 
you're  a  man  you'll  find  me  one.  .  .  ." 

"That  was  what  I  was  thinking,  cousin  William,"  said 
Louis,  with  a  quick  smile  and  a  nod  that  showed  his  lik- 
ing. He  was  delighted  with  both  of  his  elder  cousins; 
but  was  not  at  all  pleased  with  the  others. 


11 

After  a  moment,  in  which  quick  perceptions  of  these 
likings  and  distastes  made  themselves  felt  in  his  question- 
ing mind,  he  turned  to  his  girl-cousin,  whom  her  father 
called  Doll. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  angry  with  me,"  he 
said  directly.  "I  haven't  hurt  you  .  .  ."  It  was  a  cry 
of  impatience  at  misunderstanding  of  his  nature. 

"What  I  was  going  to  say,"  continued  William,  press- 
ing down  the  rising  head  of  discontent,  "was  that  Mum's 
got  gentry  on  the  brain.  She's  morbid  about  them.  Her 
father  kept  a  village  shop ;  and  she  was  taught  to  curtesy 
before  she  could  walk.  And  she'll  simply  make  a  fool  of 
herself  if  your  mother  comes  to  buy  a  pound  of  lard. 
She'd  better  keep  away.  But  if  your  mother  is  a  real 
lady,  as  I  should  think  she  was,  by  the  look  of  you,  Mum 
here's  as  good  a  lady  as  ever  wore  furs.  You  can  see 
her  any  Sunday.  She's  Church  of  England.  You'll  see 
us  sitting  under  the  Parson  every  Sunday  morning;  and 


OVER  THE  SHOP  99 

you'd  never  be  able  to  tell  she'd  ever  done  a  stroke  of 
work  in  her  life.  As  for  me  ...  in  ten  years'  time,  now 
my  Holloway  shop's  established,  as  you  may  say,  there's 
no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  be  half  a  gentleman  myself. 
I  mean,  smoking  cigars  and  jingling  coppers  in  my  pocket. 
The  pity  is,  the  kids  are  growing  up  fidgety.  Things 
aren't  good  enough  for  them.  They're  touchy.  They  don't 
like  to  see  me  in  an  apron,  so  they  shout  the  odds  against 
the  people  who  never  wore  aprons  .  .  ." 

"We  don't !"  cried  both  the  delinquents. 

"To  hear  them  talk,  it's  a  sin  not  to  keep  a  shop.  That's 
the  way  they  get  their  own  back  for  having  been  brought 
up  in  one.  It's  a  common  error,  Louis.  .  .  .  You'll  find 
it  out  in  good  time.  What  you  were  born  is  the  best  .  .  . 
till  you  become  something  else.  When  Reg.  here  gets 
what  he's  after  he'll  think  nobody's  any  good  but  a  civil 
engineer  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  understand !"  impatiently  cried  Dorothy. 
"It's  the  idea  that  because  you're  a  grocer  you  haven't  as 
much  right  here  as  ...  these  other  people!"  Her  voice 
trembled  with  indignation. 

Louis  exchanged  a  long  glance  with  William.  They 
understood  each  other  very  well,  and  from  that  moment 
they  were  friends. 

"I  now  understand,"  Louis  remarked  to  his  friend, 
"what  the  Parson  here  means  when  he  talks  about  the 
Revolutionary  Ferment.  This  is  it.  I  never  understood 
before." 

iii 

Dorothy  had  turned  away,  and  was  looking  into  the 
meagre  fire.  Nothing  could  so  have  estranged  her  as  this 
slight  ridicule.  Louis  knew  now  that  she  was  unlike  her 
mother  and  father.  She  was  dark — not  as  dark  as  him- 


100  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

self,  but  dark  and  pale.  Her  nose  had  an  independent 
tilt;  her  lips  were  full  (but  that  might  have  been  because 
she  was  indignant).  He  could  not  see  her  eyes.  They 
were  averted  from  him.  She  had  hardly  cared  to  see  her 
cousin,  once  the  fact  of  his  relationship  had  been  estab- 
lished. She  was  brusque,  and  sudden  in  her  movements, 
like  somebody  with  a  quick  temper  and  a  grievance.  He 
could  tell  that  she  was  slim,  but  not  thin;  but  he  could 
not  tell  whether  she  was  graceful,  because  dresser-draw- 
ers, although  useful  in  an  emergency,  are  not  the  most 
suitable  of  seats.  Upor.  the  whole  Louis  saw  no  reason 
to  revise  his  earlier  judgment.  He  was  very  much  drawn 
to  William,  liked  Mrs.  William  because  she  seemed  to  him 
to  be  motherly  and  kind,  and  felt  a  fairly  strong  antipathy 
towards  both  the  children.  They  seemed  to  him  to  be  ill- 
bred  and  ill-mannered.  Nevertheless,  he  thought  William 
atoned;  since  William  and  he  were  become  friends.  It 
was  as  though  he  made  a  forgiving,  annihilating  gesture 
with  his  hand,  to  make  Dorothy's  indignant  blood  boil 
afresh  at  his  insufferable  courtesy. 

"Now  I  really  must  go,"  Louis  said.  "And  if  you're 
going  to  catch  a  train  to-night  you  ought  to  go,  too." 

"Hey,  hey!"  cried  William.  "That's  true.  Not  that 
we're  catching  a  train,  because  we're  at  the  Red  Lion,  or 
the  Golden  Lion,  or  whatever  it's  called,  to-night.  I  was 
almost  afraid  to  give  my  name  there.  But  I  reckon  the 
name  of  Vechantor  is  a  bit  of  a  draw  in  these  parts — from 
the  way  the  laddies  skip  round  at  it.  When  I  went  in  with 
the  troupe  they  looked  at  us  rather  old-fashioned,  as  the 
saying  is;  but—  Piff!  When  they  heard  the  name!" 

"It  makes  me  sick !"  Dorothy  said,  half  aloud. 

What  a  disagreeable  girl !  thought  Louis  as  he  was  let 
out  at  the  front  door.  He  made  his  way  across  the  com- 
mon smiling  at  recollections  of  William,  but  frowning 
when  he  thought  of  the  two  rude  young  ones  and  especial- 


OVER  THE  SHOP  101 

ly  when  he  thought  of  the  girl,  who  was,  being  the  elder, 
the  more  unforgivably  rude  of  the  two.  As  he  crossed  the 
common  he  looked  back  at  the  Hughes's  house.  In  an  up- 
per window  he  could  see,  as  well  as  upon  the  first  floor, 
an  illumination.  The  Hughes  family  was  going  to  bed. 
Was  that  upper  window  Veronica's  room  by  any  chance? 
He  wondered.  Wondering,  he  sighed  sharply.  What  an 
evening  it  had  been!  And  what  a  lot  it  had  given  him 
to  think  about !  Daunton's  affair  and  Veronica's  manner. 
And  what  Miss  Lampe  had  told  him  .  .  .  about  Daunton 
and  Veronica  .  .  .  and  then  his  cousins,  William  and 
Mrs.  William,  and  the  boy  .  .  .  and  that  disagreeable 
girl  with  the  modern,  aggressive  manner.  Hey  ho!  He 
yawned. 

"I  don't  mind  how  soon  I'm  in  bed,"  Louis  said  to 
himself.  "But  all  the  same,  it's  been  rather  a  lark,  this 
evening.  A  lark  .  .  ."  His  mind  drifted  off.  He 
wondered  what  Veronica's  quick  "not  Adela?"  had 
meant.  And  one  or  two  other  little  half-memories  of 
Veronica's  movements  or  expressions  darted  waywardly 
in  his  mind.  "Yes,"  he  thought.  "I  bet  the  name  did 
make  a  sensation  at  the  Lion.  By  George!  Of  course, 
that's  what's  made  her  so  sick !" 

He  was  still  smiling  as  he  entered  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VI:  WOMEN 


FOR  some  days  after  this  Louis  had  plenty  of  material 
for  his  private  thoughts.  In  general  his  life  went 
quietly  on.  He  met  his  mother  and  father  at  dinner  in/ 
the  evening,  or  he  was  in  town,  at  theatres  or  with  his 
personal  acquaintances;  and  his  superficial  attention  was 
occupied  with  daily  affairs.  But  underneath  his  atten- 
tion, flying  every  now  and  then  up  to  the  surface  after 
the  fashion  of  air  bubbles,  went  on  those  more  profound, 
more  secret  musings  which  composed  his  real  mental 
life.  They  were  vague;  they  had  rapidities  unperceived, 
and  influences  upon  his  character  which  none  could  cal- 
culate. They  were  like  that  stealthy  and  unnoticed  physi- 
cal change  which  is  all  the  time  in  progress  within  us  and 
which  leads  to  the  perpetual  renewal  of  physical  force 
in  our  bodies.  In  his  ordinary  behaviour  Louis  did  not 
alter;  those  who  saw  him  every  day — even  his  mother, 
for  all  her  care — had  no  notion  of  the  interior  develop- 
ment which  was  going  on.  She  did  not  know  he  had  been 
to  see  William.  She  did  not  know  of  his  talk  with 
Daunton.  She  could  only  speculate  as  to  the  effects  fol- 
lowing upon  his  walk  across  the  common  with  Adela  and 
Judith  and  Veronica.  Louis  himself  hardly  knew  what 
had  happened  to  him.  He  felt  differently,  but  he  was  not 
aware  of  the  daily  change.  Nevertheless,  he  lived 
a  good  deal  in  the  days  following  the  party. 

Adela  and  Veronica,  of  course,  were  much  in  his  mind. 

102 


WOMEN  103 

When  he  thought  of  their  prettiness  he  unconsciously 
smiled  with  delight.  When  he  thought  that  Veronica 
had  deliberately  wanted  to  charm  him,  to  attract  him — 
by  her  nearness,  her  intimate,  coaxing  turnings  to  himself, 
her  lowered  voice  in  giving  that  double  invitation  (as 
though  it  were  a  private  understanding  between  them) — 
he  still,  by  a  kind  of  wilful  blindness,  wished  to  be  suc- 
cessfully charmed.  To  be  doped  by  her  charm.  The 
two  feelings,  not  expressed,  but  deep  in  his  conscious- 
ness, were  mingled  and  diffused.  To  say  right  out  that 
Veronica  was  willing  to  marry  him,  willing  to  go  rather 
more  than  half-way  to  meet  him  in  such  an  ambition,  was 
quite  impossible  to  Louis.  And  yet  some  faint  feeling 
of  that  kind,  far  back,  lulling  with  primitive  complacency 
his  scrutinising  spirit,  did  persistently  add  to  his  com- 
mencing desire  for  her.  The  thought  that  she  liked  him 
was  beautifully  sweet.  The  thought  of  her  pretty,  soft 
cheeks,  her  temptingly  veiled  eyes,  the  white  throat  and 
the  tender  curve  of  her  breast,  was  often  with  him,  tan- 
talising him.  Above  all,  the  thought  of  her  bewitching 
mouth,  the  tiny  gleaming  teeth,  and  the  imagination  of 
touching  such  soft  warm  lips,  came  dancing  into  his  mind 
with  a  mischievous  persistency. 

What,  then,  was  it  that  gave  him  that  curious  feeling 
which  confused  itself  with  these  more  delectable  thoughts 
of  Veronica?  It  was  the  feeling  that  he  saw  through 
her  and  found  her  shallow  and  selfish;  and  yet  that  she 
was  sweet,  na'ive,  exquisitely  simple ;  that  he  did  not  wish 
to  see  through  her;  that  she  was  calculatingly  ready  to 
marry  him,  as  she  would  have  been  to  marry  any  other 
young  man  of  equal  position  and  attractiveness  if  there 
had  been  one  in  the  district;  that  she  thought  nothing 
at  all  of  marriage,  but  was  eager  to  vary  the  sameness  of 
her  days  and  evenings;  that  she  was  innocent,  cynical, 
wanton,  inexpressibly  fragile,  tough,  warm  as  love  itself, 


104  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

cold  as  steel,  pure,  treacherous,  inscrutable;  now  un- 
consciously, now  with  the  deepest  cunning  of  her  sex, 
provocative.  .  .  .  One  day  he  would  come  to  a  conclu- 
sion; would  deliberately  choose  which  road  he  would  as 
deliberately  follow  in  thinking  of  her.  He  would  decide 
whether  he  loved  her  or  not.  There  was  no  other  cri- 
terion. If  one  loved,  one  thrust  far  back,  away  from  one, 
thoughts  of  a  girl's  basenesses.  And  if  one  didn't  love 
.  .  .  Oh,  it  wasn't  a  question  of  truth  at  all.  Only  of 
illusion.  In  the  last  resort,  of  cultivated  illusion.  What 
was  love  itself  but  the  egregious  name  given  to  a  tumult 
of  desires  and  illusions?  Why  should  one  shut  one's 
eyes  to  that?  Louis  hurled  all  the  discoveries  of  youth 
at  the  moralists.  They  were  ignorant,  cowardly,  material- 
ist under  a  fawning  profession  of  idealism.  The  women 
even  more  than  the  men,  because  their  pretensions  were 
greater.  Hypocrites ! 

And  through  all  his  torment  his  mother  remain  sacro- 
sanct to  Louis. 


11 

Mrs.  Hughes  was  fifty.  She  had  married  when  she 
was  twenty;  and  four  years  afterwards  she  had  given 
birth  to  Adela.  Adela,  therefore,  was  twenty-six. 
Judith  was  twenty-four.  Veronica  was  twenty-three. 
Mr.  Hughes  was  the  manager  of  one  of  the  city  branches 
of  a  large  bank ;  and  he  sometimes  said  at  home  that  he 
thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  his  daughters  were 
married.  When  Adela  had  a  birthday  he  raised  his 
eyebrows.  Each  year  brought  her  nearer  to  the  danger- 
ous age  past  which  a  girl  could  hardly  go  in  Beckwith. 
What  was  a  passing  thought  to  Mr.  Hughes  had  become 
a  commonplace  and  a  cause  of  active  concern  to  Miss 
Lampe,  and  Mrs.  Callum,  and  Mrs.  Deadwood,  and  Mrs. 


WOMEN  105 

Dumaresque,  and  Mrs.  Grenville,  and  Mrs.  March,  and 
Mrs.  Daunton,  and  all  the  other  ladies  in  Beckwith. 
She  was  such  a  dear  girl,  they  said.  What  a  pity  some 
young  -  man  did  not  see  her  excellent  qualities  in  the 
proper  light!  So  much  Louis  could  not  help  knowing. 
He  had  known  first  when  she  was  twenty-one  that  some- 
body had  thought  what  a  good  wife  she  would  be  for 
the  right  man.  At  the  time  it  had  not  struck  him  as  a 
funny  remark,  but  it  might  now  have  struck  him  as  a 
rather  tragic  remark.  It  was  like  a  fatal  saying,  doom- 
ing the  poor  girl  to  maidenhood. 

As  a  girl  Adela  had  been  given  rather  to  affectations, 
and  so  Louis  had  not  cared  for  her  greatly.  She  had 
worn  her  hair  eccentrically,  and  had  early  taken  to  tight 
lacing.  She  had  been  "grown-up"  before  her  time,  and 
he  remembered  that  she  had  looked  at  him  with  sophisti- 
cated eyes  in  days  when  he  had  become  self-conscious 
about  his  sex.  She  had  known  other  boys  better  than 
he.  He  had  seen  her,  at  fourteen  or  fifteen,  riding  upon 
bicycles,  and  had  met  her  at  small  distances,  always  with 
two  or  three  rather  croaking  juvenile  cavaliers,  who 
smoked  cigarettes  and  had  their  hair  greatly  brushed 
and  heavily  watered.  He  remembered  that  he  had  never 
formed  one  of  her  party,  but  had  been  commented  upon 
by  it.  He  even  thought  that  Adela  had  made  some  ad- 
vances to  him  at  that  time,  but  they  were  half -forgotten. 
Among  his  intuitions  had  been  the  belief  that  Adela's 
journey  ings  involved  the  telling  of  small  fibs,  such  as 
that  she  had  cycled  to  such  and  such  a  place  with  another 
girl,  a  friend.  The  other  girl  had  been — not  absolutely 
an  invention,  but  an  accomplice,  with  her  own  cavaliers. 
Louis  remembered  her  pasty  face  and  harsh  voice.  He 
had  not  liked  either  of  them.  Nor  had  he  liked  the  boys, 
who  wore  school  caps  upon  the  backs  of  their  watered 
heads  and  who  held  their  cigarettes  in  such  a  way  that 


106  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

the  burning  ends  were  palm-inwards,  ready  for  conceal- 
ment in  case  any  adult  should  by  chance  come  that  way. 
It  had  all  ended,  whether  by  discovery  or  through  natural 
causes,  he  did  not  know;  and  Adela,  who,  he  thought, 
must  have  known  a  good  deal  about  boys  before  she  had 
grown  out  of  them,  had  become  a  prim  maiden  by  the 
Hme  he  went  to  Oxford. 

Judith,  the  second  girl,  Louis  knew  very  little  about. 
He  was  not  much  attracted  to  her,  because  she  had  such 
an  odd  air  of  concerning  herself  with  things  that  she 
would  not  publicly  own.  She  was  the  sort  of  girl  who 
locked  herself  in  her  bedroom  and  smoked  cigarettes  out 
of  the  window  before  she  was  sixteen;  but  she  did  not 
do  that  now,  and  Louis  had  lost  touch  with  her  activities. 
He  knew  her  less  well  than  either  of  the  others.  She 
was  a  great  reader,  and  was  getting  short-sighted.  She 
had  a  sharp  tongue,  and  laughed,  as  at  a  double  entente, 
at  many  things  which  Louis  did  not  himself  perfectly 
understand.  Her  conversation  was  always  very  much 
the  same,  and  she  often  rebuked  her  sisters  for  priggish- 
ness.  But  in  talk  she  was  not  herself  very  daring. 

Veronica  was  much  fresher  than  either  of  the  others. 
He  was  certain  of  that.  In  all  his  thoughts  of  her  Louis 
was  convinced  that  she  was  the  gem  of  the  family.  She 
was  the  youngest  princess  of  the  fairy-stories,  wilful  and 
charming.  She  had  always,  from  childhood,  been  his 
little  friend,  although  latterly  they  had  been  less  intimate. 
Louis  thought  of  her  a  great  deal,  even  when  he  did  not 
see  her.  His  failure  to  call  at  the  Hughes's  had  been 
weighing  upon  him,  and  after  the  party  he  felt  bound 
to  go  there  in  response  to  the  repeated  invitations  that 
had  been  given.  So  one  evening  he  walked  across  the 
common  and  knocked  at  the  door  in  quite  a  sparkle 
of  curiosity  as  to  his  reception  and  all  those  unguessable 
sequels  that  lay  in  the  intoxicatingly  unknown  future. 


WOMEN  107 

The  door  of  the  house  was  opened — not  by  a  maid,  but 
by  a  charming  figure  that  silhouetted  itself  against  a  back- 
ground of  bright  light. 

"Hullo,  Louis !"  cried  Adela.  "Come  along  in !  Glad 
to  see  you!  Is  it  snowing?  No,  I  see  it  isn't.  Stupid 
of  me  to  ask!"  She  stood  back,  ushering  him  into  the 
room;  and  Louis  felt  the  warmth  from  that  hearty  fire 
like  a  gust  of  cheerfulness.  The  girls  were  all  there, 
and  Mrs.  Hughes  was  reading  a  book  in  a  red  cover. 
It  was  a  peaceful,  comfortable  scene.  Judith  was 
sprawling  upon  a  couch  away  from  the  light  and  the  heat, 
reading  a  book  that  contained  diagrams;  and  she  now 
sat  up,  yawning,  and  pulled  her  skirt  from  under  her 
so  as  to  cover  too-exposed  ankles.  As  she  yawned  she 
covered  her  mouth  with  the  back  of  her  hand :  her  body 
stiffened  with  the  abandonment  to  such  a  yawn. 

Veronica  was  crocheting  directly  under  a  light.  She 
did  not  look  straight  at  Louis  as  he  entered ;  but  he  saw 
her  give  a  side  glance  at  him  as  he  shook  hands  with  her 
mother.  Even  that  pleased  him,  because  it  was  a  flattery. 
He  did  not  know  whether  she  did  it  deliberately  or  be- 
cause she  did  not  want  him  to  read  her  expression. 
Young  men  who  are  rather  in  love  often  receive  this  per- 
turbing  delight  when,  at  meeting,  a  girl  does  not  raise 
her  eyes.  It  always  leaves  them  guessing.  Veronica 
was  this  evening  specially  charming,  for  she  wore  a  pale 
blue  blouse  cut  slightly  low  at  the  neck,  so  as  to  show 
her  pretty  throat.  Her  beautiful  fair  hair,  catching 
sparkles  from  the  light  above,  shone  like  gold.  Her 
fingers  were  extended  to  support  her  work,  and  the 
attitude  in  which  she  sat — her  head  down  and  her  slender 
shoulders  a  little  bowed — made  her  look  almost  like  a 
young  girl.  Louis  felt  a  warm  pulse  of  feeling,  a  kind 
of  catching  of  the  breath,  at  such  a  picture.  Her  neck 
was  so  milk-white,  and  its  curves  so  delicate,  from  her 


108  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

shoulder  to  her  ear,  and  again  to  her  throat,  that  he 
could  imagine  nothing  more  charming.  He  was  quite 
lost  in  admiration,  and  had  to  snatch  his  eyes  away  in 
order  that  his  preoccupation  with  Veronica's  loveliness 
should  not  be  observed. 


in 

Louis  had  been  seated  only  a  few  minutes  when  he 
became  aware  that  Judith  had  silently  closed  her  book 
and  stolen  from  the  room.  The  talk  disturbed  her,  and 
she  had  gone  upstairs  to  a  little  room  which  led  to  an 
upper  conservatory.  Here  she  would  cultivate  chilblains 
over  an  oil  stove  and  continue  her  researches  among  the 
diagrams.  Louis  was  left  with  Mrs.  Hughes  and  her 
two  other  daughters. 

"You've  not  been  here  for  so  long,  Louis,"  said  Mrs. 
Hughes,  clucking  her  arch  laugh,  "that  I'm  afraid  you've 
been  leading  a  dissipated  life  in  London.  Have  you?" 

"Very  dissipated,"  agreed  Louis.  "I've  been  reading 
a  great  deal;  and  I've  been  to  three  theatres  in  the  last 
month." 

"Yes,  Miss  Lampe  said  you  hadn't  caught  your  usual 
train  several  times,"  agreed  Mrs.  Hughes. 

Veronica  peeped  at  Louis,  who  was  peeping  at  her. 

"Anything  good?"  Adela  carelessly  asked,  sitting  on 
the  arm  of  Veronica's  chair. 

"Don't,  Adela!"  cried  Veronica.  "You're  in  my 
light.  .  .  ."  She  peered  at  Louis  round  Adela  until  her 
sister  moved  languidly  away  again.  There  was  a  scru- 
tinising expression  upon  her  face,  that  puckered  her 
brow. 

"No  ...  I  don't  think  I've  seen  many  good  plays," 
Louis  said  conversationally.  "You  don't,  nowadays. 
Not  in  the  commercial  theatre." 


WOMEN  109 

"What's  the  commercial  theatre?"  asked  Veronica,  in 
rather  a  pouting  voice. 

"Oh,  Vera,  what  ignorance!"  cried  Adela.  "Of 
course  she  knows,  Louis!" 

Veronica  gave  a  sudden  annoyed  jerk,  and  made  a 
knot  in  her  crochet  cotton. 

"All  right,  clever!"  she  murmured,  under  her  breath. 
Louis  did  not  hear. 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  cried  Mrs.  Hughes.  "I  forgot  that 
wretched  thing!"  She  jumped  up,  threw  down  her  book, 
and  hurried  from  the  room.  At  their  laughter,  she  called 
over  her  shoulder :  "Excuse  me,  Louis !" 

"Poor  old  mother!"  said  Adela.  "She's  always  got 
things  that  she  has  to  see  to  herself.  It's  not  as  though 
we  couldn't  do  them.  .  .  .  But  she  will  do  them  herself, 
in  her  own  way.  .  .  ." 

Veronica,  probing  at  the  knot  in  her  cotton  with  the 
delicate  point  of  her  crochet  hook,  looked  up  at  her 
sister  over  this  operation  with  a  very  singular  expres- 
sion. No  word  passed  between  them;  but  there  seemed 
to  be  some  slight  exchange  of  hostility  that  mystified 
Louis. 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  the  commercial  theatre's 
played  out,"  he  went  on,  not  because  he  wanted  to  talk 
about  it  but  because  he  thought  Adela  looked  rather 
glum.  She  had  been  bright  at  his  entry,  but  there  was 
a  hardness  in  her  manner  that  he  could  not  understand. 
Her  nose  looked  quite  sharp,  even  pinched — as  he  had 
never  before  noticed  it, — and  she  was  almost  haggard. 
He  had  not  thought  before  that  she  was  paying  the 
penalty  for  too-early  maturity;  but  she  was  certainly 
far  from  her  best.  In  contrast,  Veronica  was  exquisitely 
dainty.  She  easily  bore  the  palm,  and  some  awareness 
of  that  made  her  subtly  impudent  to  Adela.  At  any 
rate,  he  thought  he  scented  the  possibilities  of  disagree- 


110  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

ment  between  the  sisters.  Accordingly  he  persisted  in 
his  uncongenial  theme:  "I  haven't  seen  anything  good 
in  the  commercial  theatre  for  years — since  I  was  old 
enough  to  understand  anything  about  plays." 

"Hark  at  him!"  jeered  Veronica.  "Talking  about 
'commercial'  theatre  as  if  it  was  a  patent.  Louis,  when 
did  you  become  old  enough  to  understand  a  play?" 

"About  six  months  after  coming  down  from  Oxford," 
he  said,  with  a  grimacing  nod  of  reproof.  "And  as  for 
'commercial/  it's  a  distinction.  It  means  that  you  gamble 
for  high  stakes." 

"Clever !"  ejaculated  Veronica. 

Adela  rose  from  her  chair  with  a  sort  of  majestic  im- 
patience. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  you,  this  evening, 
Vera,"  she  said,  in  a  thin  voice.  "Anybody  would 
think  you  wanted  to  be  smart." 

A  faint  pink  came  into  Veronica's  cheeks. 

"How  silly  of  them!"  she  remarked.  "But  you 
wouldn't  think  anything  unkind,  I  know." 

Adela's  mouth  closed  sharply.  Louis  saw  that 
shadowed  look  pass  again  over  her  face,  and  he  puzzled 
again  over  it.  He  knew  of  no  reason  for  any  quarrel 
between  the  sisters;  but  of  course  it  might  be  just  a 
passing  breeze.  Nevertheless,  it  made  him  rather  un- 
comfortable, and  he  cast  a  little  appealing  look  at  Ver- 
onica. She  continued  inscrutably  to  crochet  under  the 
light,  while  Adela  sat  nearer  the  fire.  Veronica  did 
not  look  at  Louis.  She  sat  perfectly  quiet,  and  he  saw 
her  two  hands  moving  with  electrifying  swiftness  at  their 
work.  He  continued  aimlessly  to  talk  about  the  plays 
he  had  seen,  describing  parts  of  them;  and  at  length 
mentioned  the  work  of  a  dramatic  society  which  pro- 
duced works  considered  unsuitable  for  production  in  the 
"commercial"  theatre.  Quite  unintentionally  he  had 


WOMEN  111 

chosen  an  inopportune  theme,  with  the  result  that  he 
became  embroiled  with  Adela  on  the  subject  of  plays 
written  by  adults  for  adults.  Louis  had  forgotten  such 
views  as  she  held,  and  was  appalled  to  find  them  still  in 
being.  He  was  still  too  young  not  to  take  his  own 
opinions  and  tastes  seriously,  and  this  was  his  present 
undoing.  She  had  not  seen  any  of  the  productions  of 
the  society  he  had  been  praising,  but  she  had  read  the 
criticisms  of  them  in  her  father's  respectable  daily  paper, 
and  she  had  heard  more  than  enough  of  them.  She 
seemed  rather  contemptuously  puzzled  about  the  aims  of 
such  a  society. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "But  what  do  they  want  to  produce 
such  plays  for?" 

"How  d'you  mean?"  Louis  asked,  rather  pleased  to 
have  found  a  topic  of  discussion  upon  which  he  could 
enlarge.  "You  see,  the  members  subscribe  to  the  society, 
and  these  are  plays  that  the  committee  thinks  should  be 
produced  privately — although  they  either  wouldn't  pass 
the  censor  or  perhaps  wouldn't  pay  if  they  were  produced 
in  the  ordinary  way." 

"But  they're  not  nice  plays,"  said  Adela.  "There's  no 
reason  why  they  should  be  produced." 

"Oh,  but  the  subscribers  want  to  see  them,"  Louis  ex- 
plained, rather  puzzled.  "That's  what  they  belong  to 
the  society  for." 

"They  oughtn't  to  be  allowed,"  Adela  said.  "They 
only  do  harm." 

"One  wants  to  know  what  other  people  are  thinking." 
Louis  was  rather  patient.  His  white  lids  fell  as  he 
continued.  "The  people  who  go  to  these  plays  aren't 
children,  of  course." 

"They  must  be  very  morbid,"  Adela  remarked.  "The 
plays  are  morbid." 

"Not  all  of  them.     Some  of  them,  of  course.     But  you 


112  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

can't  help  that  at  times.  I  mean,  if  you  want  plays  about 
life  .  .  ."  he  persisted.  Adela,  exasperated,  retorted 
upon  him. 

"You  think  they're  about  life,"  she  said,  with  a  superior 
air.  "Besides,  they're  unhealthy.  You  go  to  the  theatre 
to  be  amused.  If  a  play  isn't  amusing  it's  got  no  right 
to  exist." 

"Amusing  to  whom?"  Louis  asked.  "Lots  of  plays, 
of  course,  are  failures." 

"No;  but  these  plays.  .  .  .  They  do  a  lot  of  harm." 

"I  don't  think  I  agree  with  you,"  he  said  mildly. 
"Some  of  them  are  boring;  but  some  of  them  are  most 
frightfully  interesting.  I  mean,  even  to  me.  I  want  to 
know  as  much  as  I  can — about  everything." 

Adela's  lip  curled.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  bitter, 
far-away  air  of  condescension. 

"Yes;  I  know  that  people  think  they're  awfully  mod- 
ern, and  emancipated,"  she  said,  "going  to  see  such  plays. 
But  if  they  only  do  harm " 

"Which  I  don't  agree  that  they  do,"  Louis  interrupted, 
rather  warmly. 

"They  do!"  Adela  became  suddenly  defiant  Her 
eyes  glittered ;  her  nostrils  were  drawn. 

"How  d'you  know  ?  You've  never  seen  one.  And  to 
whom  ?" 

"They  do!  I  can't  tell  you;  but  I  know  they  do.  I 
mean,  I  can't  tell  you,  because  you're  a  man.  But  they 
aren't  nice,  and  they  do  a  tremendous  lot  of  harm  to 
weak  silly  girls  .  .  .  and  young  men." 

"But  I'm  not  weak  and  silly."  Louis  did  not  want 
to  continue  the  wrangle;  but  his  rather  obstinate  nature 
forced  him  to  a  mild  protest.  He  was  not  at  all  petulant. 
"Really,  I'm  not." 

Adela  shrugged.  Her  whole  face  sparkled  with  ani- 
mation, with  anger. 


WOMEN  113 

"You're  very  young,"  she  said  bitingly.  "If  you 
were  older,  you'd  think  differently."  She  seemed  quite 
unlike  herself,  not  the  calm  Adela  of  Beckwith  legend, 
but  another  girl  who  had  extreme  difficulty  in  restraining 
her  anger. 

"But "  Louis  was  beginning;  when  Adela,  appar- 
ently carried  beyond  control,  suddenly  bent  her  head, 
crimsoned,  bit  her  lip,  and  hurried  from  the  room.  Louis 
saw  her  go  with  astonishment.  He  looked  at  Veronica, 
who  had  laid  down  her  crochet  and  was  regarding  him. 
Veronica  was  smiling  in  a  strange  way. 

"Where's  she  gone?"  Louis  asked. 

"Upstairs  ...  to  cry,"  Veronica  dryly  told  him.  "I 
wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  that  happened." 

"Good  gracious!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm  so  very  sorry. 
Was  I  rude?" 

"No,"  Veronica  said,  with  a  repetition  of  her  curious 
smile.  "Only  silly.  And  Adela's  always  hysterical  like 
that.  Didn't  you  know?" 

iv 

There  was  such  a  curious  triumph  in  her  expression, 
although  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  hide  it,  that  Louis 
was  still  more  astonished  than  he  had  been. 

"I  wouldn't  have  persisted,"  he  cried,  "if  I'd  guessed 
that  I  was  worrying  her.  I  didn't  want  to  talk  about 
that.  I  thought  it  might  interest  her.  The  plays  do 
interest  me  ...  I  mean,  I'm  curious  to  see  them;  and 
I  don't  see  why  Adela  should  mind." 

Veronica  came  closer  to  him.  Her  elbow  almost 
brushed  against  his. 

"Don't  worry,"  she  said.  "I  shouldn't."  Then,  with 
an  astounding  change,  a  change  which,  with  her  lowered 
voice,  gave  him  a  shock  of  familiarity  with  another  side 


114  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

of  her  nature,  she  went  on :  "It's  not  only  the  plays  .  .  . 
Besides,  everybody  knows  they're  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  Louis, 
you're  awfully  dense ;  and  perhaps  it's  just  as  well.  Now 
I  suppose  I've  got  to  play  your  accompaniments." 

She  moved  towards  the  piano,  and  picked  up  his  songs, 
grimacing  over  them.  They  certainly  were  not  very 
modern.  He  was  thrilling  with  admiration  of  her  pretti- 
ness  and  a  sort  of  excitement  at  her  last  words.  Still 
more  at  the  tone,  the  movement,  which  had  given  him 
a  sense  of  their  intimacy.  Veronica  looked  at  him  over 
her  shoulder. 

"If  you  want  to  know,"  she  said,  still  in  that  low  voice, 
"Adela's  upset — we  all  are — about  .  .  .  the  new  people. 
And  you,  and  your  father  and  mother.  We  know  how 
beastly  it  is  for  you.  I'm  really  very  sorry  about  it. 
It's  so  uncomfortable."  There  was  a  curious  note  of 
falseness  in  her  sympathetic  voice. 

"D'you  mean  our  cousins?"  Louis  asked,  mystified. 
Veronica  frowned  quickly. 

"Don't  call  them  that!"  she  protested. 

"But  they  are\  What's  the  harm  in  it?"  That 
seemed  to  bring  her  up  sharply.  She  looked  at  him  to 
see  how  far  from  genuine  was  his  bravado.  He  could 
see  that  she  was  puzzled,  as  though  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  his  attitude  would  be  different — or  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  pretend  that  his  attitude  must  be  different. 

"You  are  funny!"  she  said  at  last.  "I  should  have 
thought  you'd  be  awfully  waxy  about  them."  Her  soft 
voice  was  a  flattery,  cajoling  him  into  acceptance  of  the 
Hughes  view.  Louis  did  not  budge. 

"Have  you  been  to  the  shop  yet?"  he  demanded. 

"No.  Rather  not!  Miss  Lampe's  been  telling  us  all 
about  them.  There  are  two  young  ones,  you  know.  A 
boy,  and  a  stuck-up  girl  ...  horribly  ugly  ..." 


WOMEN  115 

"Oh!"  cried  Louis  swiftly.  "Nobody  could  call  her 
ugly!" 

Veronica  stared  at  him  open-mouthed. 

"You've  seen  her?"  she  exclaimed.  Her  surprise 
made  Louis  cautious. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded  in  return,  facing  her  down 
with  an  imperious  determination. 

"Oh,  but  Louis!  It's  too  dreadful!  Really,  it  is! 
The  whole  town's  in  a  stir  about  them!  Coming  here 
and  setting  up  shop.  .  .  .  And  Miss  Lampe  says  the  girl 
insulted  her  over  the  counter!" 

Louis  laughed  at  the  picture.  He  could  imagine  such 
a  scene.  Miss  Lampe ! 

"What  had  Miss  Lampe  been  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  know  she's  an  old  tabby.  But  still  .  .  .  people 
like  that!" 

Their  eyes  met ;  and  Louis  was  smiling,  so  that  Veron- 
ica turned  quickly  away.  She  seemed  to  him  to  be 
still  more  puzzled,  a  little  angry  with  him. 

"You  know,  you  make  me  a  terrific  Socialist  when  you 
talk  like  that,"  he  said  earnestly — really  in  a  friendly 
way,  and  not  at  all  as  he  had  spoken  hitherto.  "I  think 
it's  a  nuisance  that  they  should  have  come;  but  they're 
very  decent.  .  .  .  And  after  all  it's  no  business  of  Miss 
Lampe's  .  .  ." 

"Or  mine!"  Veronica  suddenly  cried.  "I  suppose 
that's  what  you  mean." 

"Look  here  .  .  .  I've  had  one  row  this  evening,  with 
Adela,"  Louis  wisely  said.  "I  don't  want  to  be  left 
alone  altogether  .  .  ."  She  looked  at  him  demurely, 
almost  archly. 

"I'm  tougher  than  Adela,"  she  remarked.     "So  you 
needn't  be  afraid.     Still,  perhaps  we'd  better  have  some 
music.     Or  you'll  think  we're  a  quarrelsome   family 
Perhaps  you  do  already.     Do  you?" 


116  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"A  little  ready  to  get  excited  about  things  that  don't 
interest  you  much,"  he  suggested. 

Without  answering,  Veronica  seated  herself  at  the 
piano.  It  was  not  until  she  had  struck  several  chords, 
and  taken  the  uppermost  song  from  Louis's  meagre  col- 
lection, that  she  spoke  again.  Then: 

"What  sort  of  girl  is  she?"  asked  Veronica  in  a  critical 
voice — as  if  she  hadn't  made  up  her  mind !  , 


But  such  a  question  was  too  much  for  Louis.  He  had 
a  very  distinct  impression  of  his  cousin ;  but  he  was  not 
at  all  prepared  to  describe  her  to  anybody.  Least  of  all, 
to  Veronica. 

"I  couldn't  say,"  he  said.  "I  admit  I  didn't  like  her 
much;  but  I'm  sure  she  isn't  ugly.  She's  very  dark,  and 
I  think  she's  got  a  good  deal  of  expression.  No,  I'm 
sure  she's  not  ugly." 

"How  old?"  Veronica's  face  had  quite  changed;  but 
he  could  only  see  half  of  it. 

"Nineteen,  twenty?  I  couldn't  say.  She's  not  very 
tall.  Her  hair's  up." 

"Silly  boy!  That's  nothing.  Miss  Lampe  said  she 
was  twenty-five  .  .  .  and  a  bad  complexion — swarthy, 
like  a  gipsy.  I  don't  expect  you  could  see  her.  Was  it 
in  the  daytime  you  saw  her?" 

"No.     I  admit  it  was  at  night." 

"Ah,  well!  Besides,  I  don't  expect  you  could  tell — 
anyway." 

"I  wish  I'd  known  you  were  likely  to  ask  me,"  Louis 
ventured,  with  deliberate  resentment;  "I'd  have  made 
sure  of  all  the  details  for  you." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  worry!  I'm  not  interested  in  her. 
I  only  wondered  what  she  was  like  .  .  .  and  what  you 


WOMEN  117 

thought  of  her.  Still,  it's  not  nice  for  you  to  have  them 
coming  here.  I  shouldn't  like  it  if  .  .  ." 

Veronica  broke  off.  The  break  made  what  she  had 
been  going  to  say  more  significant  than  it  would  have 
been  if  the  sentence  had  been  completed.  She  struck 
further  chords  upon  the  piano.  As  they  resembled  those 
indicated  in  the  music  before  her  Louis  assumed  that 
she  had  played  the  prelude;  and  by  starting  lustily  to 
sing  his  song  forced  Veronica  from  her  questionings  into 
his  accompaniment.  By  the  time  the  song  was  finished, 
both  Mrs.  Hughes  and  Adela  had  reappeared  in  the 
room.  Louis  turned  to  look  at  Adela.  In  appearance 
she  was  quite  as  usual.  There  was  no  suggestion  of 
the  late  storm,  or  of  any  discomposure,  as  far  as  his  inex- 
perienced eye  could  judge.  In  Mrs.  Hughes  there  was 
only  a  kind  of  determined  benevolence,  behind  which 
anything  might  lie,  from  stupidity  to  tyranny.  But 
Adela  was  to  him  the  mystery!  Her  sudden  exit,  the 
cool,  scornful  remarks  of  Veronica  .  .  .  And  this  ordi- 
nary calm  in  such  a  hasty  reappearance.  What  was 
the  explanation  of  it?  What  strange  girls  the 
girls  of  Beckwith  were!  They  were  so  tough,  and  so 
superficially  emotional,  that  they  played  perpetual  April. 
They  seemed  to  live  for  excitement,  and  to  make  it  for 
themselves,  out  of  nothing.  He  was  truly  puzzled.  So 
he  sang  another  song,  in  response  to  their  entreaties. 

"We  couldn't  resist  the  song!"  said  Mrs.  Hughes. 
And  then,  when  the  second  one  was  finished,  she  turned 
to  Adela.  "Sing  that  new  one  of  yours,  dear,"  she 
added.  "The  one  about  the  flowers  and  the  birds.  I'm 
so  fond  of  it." 

Veronica  rose  from  the  piano  at  these  words.  Her 
work  was  over  for  the  moment. 

"Oh,  Vera!  You  are  a  beast!"  Adela  cried.  "You 
might  play  it  for  me!" 


118  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Tired!"  Veronica  explained,  grimacing. 

Adela  seated  herself  and  played  her  own  accompani- 
ment, making  mistakes  in  it.  When  she  had  finished  the 
song  she  left  the  piano,  tossing  aside  her  music  and  sink- 
ing limply  into  a  chair.  Her  face  was  not  at  this  moment 
very  agreeable;  but  Louis  felt  sympathetic  towards  her, 
and  so  he  praised  the  song. 

"Vera  knows  I  can't  play  and  sing  at  the  same  time," 
Adela  said. 

"You  try  very  hard,"  put  in  Veronica  in  rather  a  chal- 
lenging voice.  "That's  so  devoted  of  you!" 

"Pig!"  Adela  cried,  laughing.  "That's  what  you 
are!" 

"Oh!  Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Hughes.     "There's  a  thing!" 

They  were  all  laughing  at  such  a  little  battle.  Louis 
would  have  laughed  also  if  he  had  not  caught  the  glance 
which  Adela  sent  hurtling  over  to  Veronica.  It  made 
him  jump,  it  was  so  full  of  hatred.  It  was  as  though  a 
battle  had  been  going  on  of  whose  progress  he  had  been 
unaware.  He  was  quite  unable  to  probe  the  mystery; 
he  was  completely  baffled.  But  he  was  sure  that  there 
was  hatred  between  them. 


CHAPTER  VII:  AN  ENCOUNTER 


THE  recollection  of  Adela,  whose  curious  behaviour 
caused  him  a  good  deal  of  concern,  and  of  Miss 
Lampe's  description  of  Dorothy  as  ugly,  recurred  to 
Louis  several  times  during  the  days  that  followed.  They 
came  to  him  always  as  little  fleeting  absurdities,  and  made 
him  grin.  He  grinned,  however,  with  a  good  deal  of 
shrewdness,  and  not  altogether  from  enjoyment.  In 
Miss  Lampe's  condemnation  he  read  the  ready  partisan 
comment  so  usual  in  Beckwith,  because  it  took  so  little 
to  make  opinions  grotesque  in  the  town.  Everything — 
from  girls  to  books — was  so  quickly  dismissed  as  "nice," 
"not  nice,"  "nasty,"  "ugly,"  "unnecessary."  A  thing 
"not  nice"  was  also  "unnecessary."  "One  doesn't  want 
to  have  unpleasant  things  mentioned,"  "Of  course  one 
knows  it's  true,  but  it's  so  unnecessary,"  "One  wants 
to  be  taken  away  from  the  sordid  realities  of  life,"  and 
so  on,  were  cries  constantly  raised.  A  thousand  false 
issues  were  raised.  Becau.se  Dorothy  had  not  received 
Miss  Lampe  with  becoming  humility  she  was  "not  nice," 
she  was  "unnecessary" ;  she  had  become  "ugly."  He  had 
no  doubt  that  she  had  become  "immodest,"  and  even 
"odd."  .  .  . 

Adela's  sudden  abandonment  to  tears — the  tears  of 
somebody  quite  tough,  Louis  assured  himself,  who  had 
allowed  her  temper  to  conquer  her  for  a  few  moments — 
was  a  curious  phenomenon.  There  was  also  her  quarrel, 

119 


120  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

simmering  through  the  whole  evening,  with  Veronica. 
Veronica  had  somehow  triumphed  over  Adela,  and 
Adela  was  sore.  He  tried  to  understand  that,  and  tried 
to  remember  her  of  old,  so  as  to  find  a  key  to  her  char- 
acter. He  could  only  recall  her  as  the  juvenile  minx, 
dishonest  and  flirtatious,  with  a  great  deal  more  knowl- 
edge of  boys,  and  perhaps  even  of  "fellows,"  than  was 
good  for  her.  It  was  hard  to  reconcile  the  prim  Adela 
of  to-day  with  such  early  maturity  as  she  had  shown. 
Yet  it  gave  him  a  subtle  horror  of  her  to  think  of  those 
old  days.  It  made  her  seem  to  him  a  prude,  hiding 
base  knowledge  under  a  false  shocked  modesty. 

Had  Veronica  been  as  she?  The  thought  was  ab- 
horrent to  him.  He  so  much  wanted  to  shut  his 
mind  to  any  thought  of  her  that  affected  his  admiration 
and  his  budding  love  that  he  could  not  bear  to  face  his 
own  doubts.  If  he  had  dared  to  force  that  veil  of  his 
own  delicacy  he  would  have  had  to  account  for  the 
mixture  in  her  of  real  innocence  an  inquisitive  ignorance 
with,  upon  some  subjects,  her  quite  definite  but  concealed 
sophistication.  She  had,  he  instinctively  knew,  a  hard 
underlying  contempt  for  sensitiveness  in  a  man — really, 
for  inexperience.  He  knew  that  to  betray  timidity  be- 
fore her  would  be  fatal.  Weakness  of  any  kind  would 
make  her  ruthless,  but  even  such  a  minor  timidity  as  the 
kind  of  idealistic  chivalry  of  the  sensitive  young  man 
would  arouse  her  contempt.  To  keep  her  love  one  would 
need  to  preserve  one's  "manliness."  That  was  sophisti- 
cation, surely?  He  remembered  that  he  had  once  seen 
her  watching  the  struggles  of  a  bleeding  bird,  which  had 
been  horribly  maimed  by  some  accident.  She  had 
watched  it,  fascinated,  had  tried  to  prevent  him  from 
killing  it;  and  then,  seeing  that  his  face  had  paled  with 
the  passionate  sympathy — the  horror — he  had  felt,  she 
had  been  as  full  of  callous  surprise  as  any  sportsman 


AN  ENCOUNTER 

could  have  been.  She  had  despised  him,  and  thought 
him  a  muff.  That  was  another  odd  reminiscence.  It 
came  rushing  into  his  mind.  How  he  had  argued  with 
her!  He  had  tried  to  show  her  that  hatred  of  pain  for 
others  was  not  necessarily  a  weakness  :  Veronica  had  been 
unconvinced.  She  had  looked  at  him  with  scorn.  He 
had  hated  her.  He  had  said — he  was  then  thirteen — 
that  he  was  afraid  of  nothing.  He  had  thrust  his  hand, 
to  prove  it,  into  a  prickly  hedge,  withdrawing  it  all 
bleeding  and  covered  with  thorny  points.  She  had  held 
her  head  high,  outwardly  scorning  him;  but  she  had 
been  impressed.  In  passing  cows  she  had  clung  to  his 
arm;  and  he  had  whistled  and  walked  slowly.  No:  that 
was  something  different.  She  had  enjoyed  the  spectacle 
of  the  tortured  bird.  It  was  not  his  courage  she  had 
questioned,  but  his  hardness.  Even  in  remembering  the 
scene  Louis  trembled  with  quick  anger.  Sex-hatred  arose 
in  his  heart.  He  could  hate  bitterly  the  sex  that  was 
so  filled  with  a  kind  of  insensitive  cruelty.  Men  were 
cruel;  but  a  sort  of  decency  worked  in  them.  They 
faced  pain,  and  cared  little  for  the  pain  of  others;  but 
few  of  them  could  have  watched  with  such  absorbed 
gloating  the  agonised  flutterings  of  that  bleeding  bird. 
Even  those  would  have  been  religious  sensualists  or  men 
deformed.  That  a  normal  person  should  so  gloat  was 
surely  a  feminine  peculiarity? 

And  then,  "ugly"!  What  would  Miss  Lampe,  that 
light  of  her  sex,  be  guilty  of  saying  after  this?  If 
Dorothy  was  ugly,  Miss  Lampe  was — what?  He  saw 
Miss  Lampe's  thin  face,  her  sharp  mouth  and  long  upper 
lip ;  he  saw  the  squalid  wrinkles  in  her  skinny  neck.  Her 
tasteless  dresse's,  her  silly  hasty  prim  walk;  her  bead- 
like  eyes,  bright,  mean,  watchful.  And  yet  she  was 
only  absurd,  only  an  occasion  for  smiles.  She  was  not 
even  fabulously  comic,  as  some  other  Beckwith  ladies 


122  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

were.  She  was  only  absurd,  like  a  dried  leaf,  contorted 
by  the  action  of  wind  and  sun,  withered  and  barren;  as 
useless  as  an  old  leaf  and  as  bleached  and  shrivelled. 
Her  mind  was  dead.  Having  no  life  of  her  own,  she 
lived,  like  a  Christian,  for  others;  only  her  concern  was 
not  to  sacrifice  herself,  but  only  to  scrutinise  the  lives 
of  other  people.  She  was  microscopic,  meticulous.  .  .  . 
Miss  Lampe's  motto,  Louis  felt,  was :  "Watch  and  pry !" 
"Beastly  woman!"  he  cried;  and  laughed  aloud. 
"Poor  Miss  Lampe!"  he  added  after  a  moment.  "So 
humble  and  officious!"  But  as  Louis  thought  of  Miss 
Lampe  he  was  restrained  by  no  such  scruple  as  he  felt 
in  considering  Veronica.  Miss  Lampe  was  old,  and  ex- 
hausted. Veronica  was  young.  Veronica,  of  all  the 
girls  he  knew,  alone  had  the  power  to  move  him.  With 
her  he  was  conscious  of  excitement,  of  a  kind  of  dancing 
wonderment,  and  an  unceasing  curiosity.  There  was  no 
end  to  Veronica's  possibilities.  Particularly  as  his  mind 
became  blurred  when  he  thought  of  them. 


H 

It  was  upon  the  following  Sunday  afternoon  that 
Louis,  walking  for  his  delight,  went  far  afield.  He  first 
walked  south,  down  and  up,  along  a  beautiful  road  that 
was  overhung  with  the  bare  arms  of  mighty  trees.  In 
summer,  with  its  grassy  borders  and  unbounded  depths 
of  thicket  upon  each  side,  this  road  was  one  for  the 
marvelling  eye.  In  the  branches  above  one  heard  the 
sweet  noises  of  the  woodland,  and  at  every  turn  lay  the 
secret  beauties  of  colour  and  form  in  bark  and  leaf  and 
mould.  Even  in  winter  it  was  lovely,  for  the  treeboles 
were  still  exquisite,  and  the  crossings  of  the  boughs  and 
smaller  branches  made  a  tracery  bewildering  in  its  in- 


AN  ENCOUNTER  123 

tricacy.  The  wind  came  sharply  through  the  wood,  now 
so  meagre.  It  was  a  bleak  northern  wind,  but  not  so 
strong  as  to  arouse  the  hushing  and  pattering  of  the 
lightly  swaying  branches.  Everything  was  quiet. 
Louis's  steps  echoed  sharply;  his  stick  clicked  upon  the 
roadway.  He  walked  easily  and  with  elasticity,  welcom- 
ing the  breeze,  observant  and  tranquil. 

His  idea  being  to  follow  this  road  and  to  leave  it  at 
a  large  fork  a  mile  farther  on,  he  gave  little  heed  to 
what  lay  before  him,  more  distantly  upon  his  way.  It 
was  not  until  he  neared  the  fork,  which  would  bring  him 
round  once  again,  by  a  circuit  of  three  miles,  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  Beckwith,  that  Louis  became  aware  of 
two  figures  standing  in  perplexity  at  the  parting  of  the 
ways.  Then,  as  he  neared  the  two,  he  was  puzzled  to 
account  for  their  familiarity,  until  it  flashed  into  his 
mind  that  they  were  William  and  Dorothy.  William  had 
turned  back  to  ask  for  directions.  Louis  waited  with 
some  amusement  for  recognition;  and  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  see  how  William's  face  lighted  up. 

"Why,  Louis!"  he  cried.  "The  very  man!"  They 
shook  hands.  Louis  looked  beyond  William,  into  the 
rather  gloomy  face  of  Dorothy.  How  little  pleased  she 
seemed  at  this  encounter !  Her  greeting  was  courteous — 
which  was  an  improvement,  Louis  thought! — but  it  was 
not  cordial.  She  had  evidently  wanted  to  be  alone  with 
her  father. 

"This  is  the  road,"  Louis  explained.  "At  least,  the 
way  I  was  going." 

"Couldn't  be  better!  Now,  tell  us  all  about  the 
neighbourhood,  Louis.  I  suppose  you  know  it  like  the 
back  of  your  hand,  as  one  may  say." 

Spurred  by  this  confidence,  Louis  enlarged  upon  the 
features  of  the  district.  He  pointed  his  arm,  he  indi- 
cated directions,  distances,  rural  features,  landmarks, 


124  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

with  all  the  gusto  of  a  proprietor  and  with  something 
less  than  the  stereotyped  facetiousness  of  a  professional 
guide.  He  grew  eloquent.  From  the  district  he  turned 
to  the  place,  to  the  growth  of  its  housing  accommoda- 
tion, the  railway,  the  shops,  the  people,  and  the  houses. 
From  the  inhabitants  in  general  he  turned  to  the  inhabi- 
tants in  particular,  of  whom  he  knew  the  majority.  He 
described  them,  and  told  of  things  they  had  done;  his 
portraits  were  directed  to  William's  eye,  and  not  at  all 
to  Dorothy's  amusement.  He  talked  for  William — not 
for  Dorothy,  who  walked  quietly  beside  him,  intently 
listening,  but  with  an  air  of  indifference.  Louis  did  not 
care  very  much  whether  she  listened  or  not,  but  he  con- 
firmed his  impression  of  her  good  looks  by  unobtrusive 
glances.  She  was,  there  could  be  no  doubt,  extremely 
pretty  in  a  rather  odd  and  baffling  way.  She  was  so  dark 
that  relationship  between  them  seemed  to  be  proclaimed 
— even  a  nearer  relationship  than  there  was  in  fact;  but 
the  unusual  cut  of  her  clothes  set  her  apart  again.  She 
was  clearly  a  Londoner,  careless  of  what  was  thought  of 
her  by  strangers.  She  looked  like  a  tidy  art-student. 
Her  arms  hung  naturally,  without  constraint  or  over- 
swing.  She  walked  well.  She  walked  better  than  most 
of  the  girls  in  Beckvvith,  who  shuffled  or  clumped;  and 
her  clothes  apparently  fitted  her  better,  since  her  skirt 
was  the  same  distance  from  the  ground  at  all  points,  and 
her  overcoat  was  smart.  Her  hat  Louis  did  not  like. 
Even  to  him  it  seemed  rather  peculiar.  He  could  not 
take  his  eyes  off  it  for  several  seconds  after  the  first 
glimpse.  It  had  red  berries  upon  it,  and  it  was  green. 
If  her  complexion  had  been  less  clear  the  hat  would 
had  given  her  face  a  grey  appearance;  but  Dorothy  had 
the  most  delicately  beautiful  complexion  Louis  had  ever 
seen.  One  thing  he  liked :  she  did  not  let  her  hair  cover 
her  ears,  perhaps  because  they  were  very  charming  ears. 


AN  ENCOUNTER  125 

It  was  drawn  back  from  her  temples,  but  not  too  scrupu- 
lously, and  it  was  almost  black  hair,  fine  and  luxuriant. 
On  the  whole  Louis  was  pleased  with  his  girl  cousin's 
superficial  aspect.  He  was  pleased  to  feel  himself  walk- 
ing by  her  side.  William  also  pleased  him  by  his  eager- 
ness and  attention,  and  by  his  recognition  of  all  that 
he  was  meant  to  recognise.  There  was  something  flat- 
tering in  William's  attentiveness.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  a  few  saving  characteristics  in  himself  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  difficult  corners  in  Dorothy,  Louis  would 
have  been  so  pleased  with  himself  and  his  company  as 
to  reach  the  fringe  of  complacency.  That  ghastly  acci- 
dent fortunately  did  not  occur.  And  if  it  did  not,  then 
perhaps  the  unperturbed  behaviour  of  Dorothy  was 
responsible.  Every  now  and  then  Dorothy  also  stole  a 
glance  at  Louis.  Her  expression  of  gloom  diminished 
during  his  recital.  She  remained  rather  non-committal 
still ;  but  she  was  not  bored.  Louis  could  tell  that.  He 
was  not  at  all  afraid  of  her.  He  was  even  rather  kind 
to  her,  until  he  saw  her  eyes  flash  and  her  mouth  harden. 
No:  kindness  was  not  the  proper  line,  decided  Louis. 
It  was  even  worse  than  disdain.  So  he  cast  aside  all 
vanity  and  calculation,  and  became  natural  towards  her. 
In  five  minutes  he  had  seen  her  smile,  had  seen  her  throw 
at  William  a  little  quick  radiant  comment,  unspoken  but 
readable.  And  still  Louis  was  checked  in  his  com- 
placency. There  was  some  quality  in  her  that  forbade 
complacency.  It  was  self-reliance.  Dorothy  did  not 
speak;  but  if  Louis  regarded  her  he  saw  that  one  reason 
why  Beckwith  would  not  receive  his  cousin  to  its  bosom 
was  that  she  had  a  mind  of  her  own.  Dreadful  pos- 
session ! 


126  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


in 

In  Beckwith  people  do  not  have  minds  of  their  own. 
That  is  why  Beckwith  society  is  so  extremely  pleasant 
and  consistent  It  is  devout  and  it  is  worldly.  All  the 
Beckwithians  are  devout  and  worldly.  Louis  quickly 
guessed  that  Dorothy  was  neither.  She  was  not  at  all 
devout,  because  she  had  been  brought  up  to  take  nothing 
on  trust.  She  was  amused  at  the  idea  of  anybody  tak- 
ing things  on  trust.  But  she  did  not  strike  Louis  as 
being  worldly,  either.  She  did  not  seem  to  want  to  know 
who  and  what  people  were,  or  in  what  esteem  they  were 
held.  At  least,  she  did  not  show  any  interest  in  that 
aspect  of  social  life.  She  did  not  seem  very  much  to 
want  to  know  whether  they  were  agreeable  or  disagree- 
able. When  Louis,  bred  to  observe  social  differences, 
alluded  to  some  particular  pretension,  Dorothy  did  not 
laugh,  but,  instead,  she  frowned;  and  he  felt  that  she 
was  criticising  him  for  being  a  snob.  That  made  him 
sensitive,  in  case  she  should  think  that  he  had  expressed 
his  own  opinion,  when  in  reality  he  had  only  been  illus- 
trating the  tone  of  Beckwith.  There  was  a  kind  of 
address  about  her,  he  decided,  that  was  in  harmony  with 
her  strange  hat.  What  was  it  she  wanted  to  know  about 
people?  Not  their  incomes,  nor  their  origins,  nor  their 
callings  or  social  ambitions;  not  whether  one  "ought" 
to  know  them  or  about  them.  She  gave  no  sign  of 
her  particular  solvent.  Perhaps  she  hadn't  got  one! 
Well,  in  that  case,  taking  every  person  on  his  or  her 
merits,  she  couldn't  be  worldly.  She  must  be  just  a 
child.  Could  a  child  have  such  decided  opinions? 
Dorothy  aggravated  Louis.  She  piqued  him.  She  was 
a  silly,  arrogant,  opinionated  girl  who  knew  nothing  at 
all  about  life.  He  would  not  trouble  about  her.  He 


AN  ENCOUNTER  127 

would  forget  her.  And  all  the  time,  he  was  wondering 
what  lay  behind — what  she  really  thought.  It  was  his 
own  problem  rising  once  more :  the  mysteriousness  of 
human  demeanour.  What  was  he  looking  for  himself? 
Yes;  but  Dorothy  had  no  right  to  be  so  masculine.  As 
a  man  he  resented  it.  The  grievance  came  back  to  the 
first  point :  she  thought  she  could  think  and  see  for  her- 
self. She  had  a  mind  of  her  own.  It  exasperated  him  to 
feel  that  he  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  what  that  mind 
was  teaching  her  to  believe  about  Louis  Vechantor.  He 
could  only  guess  that  it  was  something  unfavourable. 
The  thought  of  being  summed  up  with  disfavour  could 
never  be  pleasant  to  anybody  still  young  and  self-con- 
scious; but  to  Louis  any  such  estimate  on  the  part  of 
Dorothy  was  a  gross  misreading  of  his  character.  She 
couldn't  know  anything  about  him :  she  was  going  right 
off  the  line,  and  the  fatal  impression  was  being  strength- 
ened by  his  very  efforts  to  rectify  her  mistake.  Irri- 
tating little  thing!  thought  Louis.  She's  conceited.  .  .  . 
Why  can't  she  say  something,  so  that  I  can  contradict 
her? 

iv 

Louis  had  never  cared  so  much  before  to  "put  himself 
right."  If  he  had  been  less  well-bred  he  would  have 
challenged  her  directly,  or  even  would  have  ventured 
into  self -exposition.  He  was  restrained,  however,  by  his 
politeness  and  his  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  He  must  leave 
it  to  time  to  rehabilitate  him  in  her  eyes.  If  it  were 
worth  while  that  he  should  be  rehabilitated.  Perhaps 
it  wasn't,  after  all  ... 

"Down  that  hill,  where  you  can  just  see  a  bridge  cross- 
ing the  road,  is  the  house  of  a  lady  who  watches  over 
Beckwith,"  he  remarked,  taking  advantage  of  place  to 


128  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

divert  his  own  thoughts.  "She  isn't  a  very  rich  lady, 
but  she  lives  alone  in  a  small  house  built  very  near  the 
road.  And  she  knows  everybody  and  everything  in 
Beckwith.  I'm  almost  afraid  to  whisper  a  word  about 
her,  for  fear  she  hears  it." 

"Have  you  ever  been  inside  her  house  ?"  asked  Dorothy. 

"Not  inside — no.  But  as  you  go  by  you  feel  the 
curtain  moves.  She  has  very  dense  lace  curtains;  but 
I  think  she  must  stand  very  close  against  them." 

"Pious?"  asked  William  abruptly. 

"Very.  Oh,  very!  She  sets  a  good  example  to  the 
whole  town." 

"I  thought  so,"  William  admitted.  "I  don't  like 
pious  people.  They're  never  quite  straight." 

"Really  .  .  .  really  .  .  ."  Louis  was  exceedingly  in- 
terested in  such  a  suggestion.  It  made  him  fall  naturally 
into  one  of  the  ways  familiar  in  Beckwith  for  the  elicit- 
ing of  further  detail. 

"I  expect  Louis  is  very  religious  himself,"  Dorothy 
said.  "So  you'd  better  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  present  company  .  .  .  present  company  .  .  ." 
added  William  quickly. 

"What  makes  you  think  I'm  religious?"  demanded 
Louis. 

"You're  so  uncharitable,"  she  answered.  Louis  de- 
murred. "Well,  you  don't  get  angry  with  stupid  people ; 
you  say  little  malicious  things  about  them  .  .  ."  Dorothy 
explained. 

"Oh;  but  I'm  told  a  religious  person  never  says  mali- 
cious things.  He  only  thinks  them.  That's  very  dif- 
ferent," explained  Louis.  "Beckwith  makes  me  angry; 
only  I  feel  it's  no  good  getting  angry.  It's  only  stupid 
people  who  lose  their  tempers,  and  that's  because  they 
haven't  any  knowledge  to  ground  their  arguments  on. 
They  just  have  to  shout.  Now,  I  never  shout." 


AN  ENCOUNTER  129 

Dorothy's  lip  curled. 

"No.     I  suppose  you  think  it's  bad  form,"  she  said 
dryly. 


What  could  one  do  but  snap  one's  fingers  in  exaspera- 
tion? Louis  looked  at  William,  and  William  looked  at 
Louis.  That  exchange  renewed  the  peace  that  Dorothy's 
words  might  have  broken.  If  Louis  had  been  resolute 
to  take  offence  that  speech  of  hers  would  have  separated 
them  more  effectively  than  any  Beckwithian  outside  effort 
could  have  done.  But  Louis  was  not  conceited — or  not 
very  conceited — so  he  took  her  rebuke  in  good  part. 

"I  do,  rather,"  he  admitted  coolly.     "Don't  you?" 

There  was  no  answer;  and  he  knew  that  she  was  very 
ashamed  of  herself,  for  having  been  unforgivably  rude. 

"She  doesn't  mean  what  she  says!"  cried  William, 
with  a  quick  turn.  "There's  nobody  kinder  than  our 
little  Doll.  It's  mere  bumptiousness,  you  know.  Noth- 
ing behind  it." 

"I  know,"  murmured  Louis. 

A  very  faint  colour  came  into  Dorothy's  cheeks. 
Louis  saw  her  mouth  open  as  if  she  were  beginning  to 
speak;  but  no  words  came,  and  the  effort  was  clearly 
too  much  for  her.  He  felt  almost  magnanimous.  He 
was  presently  rewarded  by  the  knowledge  that  Dorothy 
glanced  quickly  aside  at  him,  and  then,  finding  that  he 
did  not  seem  to  be  conscious  of  the  fact,  prolonged  her 
scrutiny. 


CHAPTER  VIII:  IN  THE  TRAIN 


A  FEW  days  later,  Louis,  absorbed  during  the  after- 
noon by  exacting  work,  was  very  late  for  his 
homeward-bound  train.  He  had  an  exciting  run  to 
London  Bridge  station,  and  was  only  allowed  to  slip 
through  the  barrier  at  the  risk  of  losing  the  tails  of  his 
overcoat.  This  hurry,  and  the  fact  that  he  boarded  the 
train  after  it  had  begun  to  move  from  the  platform,  con- 
fused him  at  the  moment  of  entering  the  last  compart- 
ment, and  for  some  seconds  he  sat  breathing  hard,  re- 
covering his  composure.  Only  when  he  had  slightly 
cooled  after  such  violent  exertion  did  he  look  round  the 
carriage. 

It  was  a  third-class  smoking  compartment,  and  besides 
himself  there  were  four  people  in  it.  Three  men  sat 
with  their  backs  to  the  engine,  out  of  the  draught, — one  a 
middle-aged  clerk,  another  a  stout,  rather  oily  railway- 
man, the  third  a  nondescript  who  was  probably  in  the 
building  trade.  Louis  felt  himself  in  very  democratic 
company.  The  fourth  person  was  upon  his  left,  in  the 
corner  seat  facing  the  engine.  Louis  had  passed  her  in 
getting  into  the  carriage;  and  it  was  not  until  he  was 
in  full  possession  of  his  breath  that  he  noticed  a  girl's 
presence.  His  eyes  went  first  to  the  book  she  was  read- 
ing— it  seemed,  of  all  books  in  the  language,  to  be  a 
volume  of  Boswell's  "Jonnson»" — and  then  to  her  face. 
To  his  surprise,  this  studious  reader  was  his  cousin  Doro- 

130 


IN  THE  TRAIN  131 

thy.  She  was  absorbed  in  her  book,  and  he  would  have 
thought  that  she  had  not  seen  him,  or  at  least  not  recog- 
nised him,  if  he  had  not  observed  with  surprise  that  a 
faint  colour  of  embarrassment  was  coming  into  her 
cheeks  as  she  read. 

"It  can  hardly  be  anything  in  the  book  that  is  making 
her  blush,"  Louis  said  to  himself.  "As  far  as  I  remem- 
ber, at  any  rate:  so  it  clearly  must  be  that  she  doesn't 
know  what  to  do.  Perhaps  she  thinks  I  may  not  want 
to  recognise  her.  I  suppose  I  do?  It's  now  or  never. 
.  .  .  Oh,  of  course,  I  must  I  It's  absurd!  Or  doesn't 
she  want  to  recognise  me  ?  Oh,  I  ought  to  have  thought 
that  first,  instead  of  the  other  way  about.  I'm  a  snob 
— a  snob.  A  Vechantor,  in  fact!  And  I  ought  to  be 
made  to  feel  it.  .  .  ." 

"Excuse  me,  cousin  Dorothy,"  said  Louis,  cutting  short 
his  ridiculous  soliloquy  and  raising  his  hat;  "I've  only 
just  recognised  you." 

ii 

Dorothy  looked  up  from  Boswell's  "Johnson"  as 
though  she  had  been  surprised  by  his  voice. 

"Oh!"  she  valiantly  said,  pretending  that  she  had  not 
seen  him.  The  pretence  did  not  deceive  Louis  for  an 
instant.  Dorothy  did  not  pretend  very  well :  she  had  not 
had  very  much  practice  in  social  affairs. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  Louis  went  on,  pretending  in 
his  turn  to  be  more  sure  of  himself  than  he  really  was. 
"I've  had  such  a  run  for  this  train;  and  the  next  one 
isn't  until  a  quarter-to-six.  Do  you  catch  this  train  as 
a  rule,  or  have  you  just  been  to  town  for  the  afternoon?" 

"Only  to-day,"  Dorothy  said  shyly.  He  could  tell  that 
she  did  not  want  to  talk.  She  cast  a  lingering  look  at 
Boswell's  "Johnson."  Louis  thought  she  was  very  likely 
hating  the  laws  of  politeness,  which  make  it  necessary 


132  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

that  slight  acquaintances  should  stumble  to  talk  to  each 
other  in  accidental  railway  meetings,  instead  of  going  on 
with  their  real  interests.  He  racked  his  brain  to  think  of 
a  topic,  because  he  was  now  determined  to  break  down 
her  disinclination  for  him. 

"Are  you  comfortably  settled  yet  ?    At  home,  I  mean  ?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  Dorothy  vouchsafed,  with  a  full 
stop.  She  did  not  employ  suspensory  dots,  as  our  mod- 
ern novelists  so  freely  do  in  conversation. 

"And  the  people  nice  to  you?" 

That  kindled  her.  He  saw  the  indignant  flash  of  her 
eyes  in  that  pale  face.  She  changed  instantly  from  the 
Dorothy  of  their  first  meeting,  who  had  been  sullen,  to 
the  Dorothy  of  the  walk,  who  had  attracted  him. 

"Beastly!"  she  cried.  "They've  been  trying  to  find 
out  all  about  us." 

Louis  nodded. 

"Of  course,  they  were  bound  to.  That's  what  they 
always  do.  But  it  won't  continue." 

He  was  trying  to  reassure  her;  but  his  words  made 
Dorothy's  lip  curl  in  an  unpleasant  manner. 

"No,"  she  remarked  dryly.     "It  won't." 

Again  that  full  stop!  Louis  was  filled  with  concern, 
for  her  speech  was  sinister. 

"You  haven't  spoken  to  them  ...  as  you  did  to  me," 
he  hoped.  The  memory  came  to  him  of  something 
Veronica  had  said.  Something  about  an  insult  to  Miss 
Lampe.  "They  wouldn't  all  understand  as  well  as  I 
did.  Have  you?" 

Dorothy  was  constrained.  She  looked  at  the  clerk  in 
the  opposite  corner,  who  was  listening  hard,  trying  to 
hear  what  was  said,  in  these  low  voices,  scenting  an 
intrigue,  even  a  quarrel,  and  full  of  that  righteous  moral 
curiosity  in  these  affairs  which  respectable  English  peo- 
ple feel  in  any  conversation  between  two  young  people. 


IN  THE  TRAIN  133 

It  is  the  moral  police  instinct.  He  had  the  face  of  one 
tempted  and  critical  and  self-complacent;  of  one  who 
represents  Society  as  against  the  philandering  instinct. 

Dorothy  answered  at  last. 

"When  they  began  to  be  inquisitive  .  .  ."  she  began, 
and  hesitated.  Louis  helped  her. 

"It's  all  they've  got  to  live  for,"  he  explained.  "Of 
course,  it's  sometimes  inconvenient." 

"It  makes  me  savage,"  Dorothy  said.  "I  expect  I've 
been  short  with  them.  In  fact  I  know  I  have."  Then, 
grimly,  she  added :  "Still,  they've  found  out  a  good  deal. 
They've  found  out  that  mother  does  her  own  washing, 
and  that  I  make  the  beds.  .  .  .  Where  we  came  from, 
and  what  our  names  are;  and  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  disgusting. 
I  expect  you  know  them  all.  I  wish  you'd  make  them 
understand  how  ugly  they  are!" 

Ugly!  That  was  the  word  Miss  Lampe  had  used  in 
describing  Dorothy!  Of  course  Miss  Lampe  must  have 
meant  morally  ugly!  Just  as  Dorothy  did!  Louis  had 
an  extraordinary  feeling. 

"You  don't  think  I'm  as  ugly  as  they  are?"  Louis 
asked  interestedly.  Dorothy  did  not  reply.  If  they  had 
been  alone  in  the  carriage  she  might  have  done  so.  She 
might  even  have  been  rude,  Louis  thought,  with  a  sinking 
of  the  spirits.  Perhaps  he  was,  in  that  sense,  ugly?  He 
went  on :  "I've  known  them — in  a  way — all  my  life.  I've 
known  their  faces,  and  their  voices.  I  don't  really  like 
them,  of  course — I  can't  think  of  anybody  doing  that; — 
but  I  suppose  when  you're  used  to  them  .  .  ." 

"You  belong  to  their  class,"  Dorothy  said  candidly. 
"To  you  it's  natural  .  .  .  It's  the  kind  of  thing  you're 
used  to.  It's  new  and  horrible  to  me.  To  find  it  the 
only  way  people  look  at  things.  You  couldn't  feel  as  I 
do." 

"I  do,  rather."     Louis  was  for  a  moment  thoughtful. 


134  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

He  added:  "You've  always  been  a  little  unfair  to  me, 
haven't  you !" 

"No.  I  haven't."  He  saw  that  she  was  suffering 
from  that  quick  shame  which  a  sense  of  her  brusqueness 
sometimes  roused.  The  colour  was  again  beginning  to 
steal  into  her  cheeks.  He  felt  a  further  leap  of  interest 
in  her.  How  candid  she  was!  All  the  same,  she  had 
always  been  unfair  to  him. 

"Yes,"  Louis  persisted.  "We  won't  argue  about  it 
before  these  men,  because  it  would  amuse  them,  and  very 
likely  they  would  go  home  and  tell  their  wives,  and  that 
opens  up  such  a  prospect  of  aimless  scandal  that  I'm 
frightened  to  think  about  it.  ...  But  it's  quite  true 
that  when  I  came  to  call  that  night  I  acted  on  a  good 
impulse,  and  I  only  wanted  to  be  friendly,  and  helpful, 
and  .  .  .  and  cousinly,  you  know.  I  was  dreadfully 
nervous,  though  I  don't  expect  you  could  tell  that.  .  .  . 
You  see,  I  didn't  expect  to  see  anybody  but  your  father. 
To  come  on  a  whole  group  of  you  ..." 
.  "Like  a  nest  of  mice,"  Dorothy  said  brusquely. 

"Or  like  a  family  of  cousins,"  he  retorted,  with  equal 
quickness. 

"I  don't  think  I'm  awfully  keen  on  cousins,"  said 
Dorothy. 

Louis  turned  upon  her. 

"Don't  say  you've  got  more  of  them!"  he  begged,  in 
a  state  of  alarm.  "What  an  awful  thought!" 

"There  are  .  .  .  my  mother's  people.  They're  little 
grocers,  in  country  villages.  But  their  name's  Hop- 
kins .  .  ."  She  had  been  going  to  say  "Mum's  people," 
and  that  impulse,  showing  that  she  really  accepted  their 
relationship,  in  spite  of  her  first  determination  not  to  do 
so,  was  extraordinarily  pleasant  to  Louis. 

"Many  of   them?     Are   they   nice?"   he  asked   with 


IN  THE  TRAIN  135 

interest.  Her  face,  which  had  been  bright,  darkened  at 
such  a  question.  He  hardly  heard  her  next  words. 

"You're  like  our  customers,"  she  was  murmuring,  but 
with  a  shy,  rather  child-like  half -smile. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  on  thinking  that,"  he  urged. 
"It  wasn't  inquisitiveness  that  made  me  ask." 

As  Louis  spoke  the  train,  with  a  jerk  that  shot  every- 
body forward  in  their  seats,  drew  up  at  a  station.  Two 
of  their  fellow-passengers  got  out.  The  third,  hesitat- 
ing, thought  he  would  be  more  comfortable  in  another 
carriage.  He  was  not  the  moral  special-constable;  but 
another  kind  of  man,  who  felt  a  shyness  at  playing  goose- 
berry to  the  private  negotiations  of  a  courting-couple. 
He  plunged  out  of  the  carriage  after  his  fellows.  As  the 
carriage  was  the  last  in  the  train  (and  as  front  carriages 
and  final  carriages  are  always  avoided  in  case  of  colli- 
sion), no  other  passengers  appeared ;  and  the  cousins  were 
alone  together.  So  Louis  re-modelled  his  protest,  and 
felt  exhilarated  at  the  notion  that  Dorothy  would  now 
be  able  to  be  as  rude  as  she  wished.  He  even  stretched 
his  legs  slightly,  across  the  floor  of  the  carriage. 

"Everything's  a  question  of  motive,"  he  said.  "If 
you've  got  the  mind  of  a  patent  carpet-sweeper,  you  can 
be  very  objectionable.  I  know  that.  I  hate  people  who 
are  inquisitive  about  me,  or  about  my  affairs.  But  I'm 
not  really  like  the  customers.  I  do  wish  you'd  believe 
that.  I'm  really  quite  decent.  .  .  .  But  you  see  I  never 
knew  you  existed,  until  now ;  and  to  me  it  would  be  most 
awfully  interesting — on  that  account — to  hear  details 
about  you  all." 

Dorothy  closed  her  book  definitely,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  for  a  moment. 

"I  didn't  really  want  to  talk  to  you  when  you  got  in," 
she  slid  slowly.  "Only  I  didn't  want  to  be  rude." 

"I  knew  you  didn't,"  Louis  admitted.     "And  I  didn't 


136  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

want  to  ...  thrust  myself  on  you.  Still,  we  are 
cousins;  and  I  shouldn't  have  thought  I'd  done  anything 
that  deserved  a  snub." 

"A  snub !"  Dorothy  cried.     "Oh,  it's  not  that !" 

"I've  never  pretended  to  be  any  better  than  you  .  .  ." 
he  said,  rather  hurt. 

"Haven't  you,  just  a  little  ?  Just  in  trying  to  be  kind 
to  us?"  At  his  demur,  she  went  on:  "I  should  have 
thought  there  was  a  pleasure  in  it;  and  just  because  we're 
cousins  you  feel  we  ought  to  like  each  other.  I  hate 
cousins.  I  don't  want  any.  I  don't  want  any  relations. 
.  .  .  They're  only  a  nuisance." 

"They  can  be,"  he  agreed.  "I  quite  admit.  But  why 
should  I  be?  I  should  have  thought  you'd  be  curious 
about  me.  I  mean,  I'm  somebody  young,  that  you  know 
nothing  at  all  about.  I'm  curious  about  you.  I  know 
your  name,  and  that  you  read — for  some  reason — Bos- 
well's  'Jonnson-'  But  that's  everything.  Except,  of 
course,  that  you're  very  quick-tempered  and  sensitive." 

Dorothy  was  so  surprised  that  she  looked  at  him,  as  he 
had  meant  her  to  do. 

"Well !"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  aghast  at  his  audacity  in 
showing  some  judgment. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  be  friends?"  Louis  urged.  "Per- 
haps I  can  help  you." 

"I  don't  want  any  help." 

Louis  sighed.  What  could  one  reply  to  such  child- 
like rudeness? 

"I  think  you're  rather  difficult  to  get  on  with,"  he 
announced  in  a  helpless  tone. 


111 

But  by  his  frontal  attack  upon  her  Louis  had  strongly 
awakened  Dorothy's  interest  in  him.     So  much  was  clear 


IN  THE  TRAIN  137 

from  the  colour  in  her  cheeks  and  the  sparkle  in  her  eyes. 
She  even  gave  a  little  laugh,  that  was  only  half  due  to 
exasperation.  Louis,  turned  to  her,  and  watching  for 
some  key  to  her  character,  saw  the  change  and  heard  the 
laugh  with  a  feeling  of  relief.  He  laughed  slightly 
himself. 

"For  me,"  he  said,  "it's  really  jolly  to  have  found  a 
cousin.  My  sister's  older  than  I  am,  and  she's  been 
married  for  so  long  that  I  hardly  know  her  at  all.  She 
lives  in  Hertfordshire.  Her  name  is  Beatrice.  And  I 
can't  help  believing  that  cousins  perhaps  have  something 
.  .  .  some  sort  of  similarity.  Taste  .  .  .  and  so  on. 
Don't  you  think  they  have?  Perhaps  it's  only  a  dream, 
because  you're  the  only  cousin  I've  talked  to  at  all.  I'm 
not  like  the  people  at  Beckwith.  Really,  I'm  not.  Nor 
is  my  mother,  I  think.  I  want  you  to  know  her.  If 
you'll  help  me  I  can  manage  it  quite  easily.  But  if  you're 
going  to  stand  on  your  dignity,  and  refuse  to  be  friendly, 
we  shall  never  get  the  two  families  knowing  each  other. 
It's  only  a  kind  of  vanity  ...  or  something  .  .  .  that 
makes  people  frightened  of  taking  the  first  step.  They're 
afraid — you're  afraid — of  taking  the  first  step,  in  case 
the  others  don't  respond,  and  you  get  a  rebuff.  You 
can't  stand  rebuffs." 

"And  you  won't  take  them !"  cried  Dorothy,  flaming. 

"I'm  really  very  afraid  of  you,"  Louis  answered. 
"But  it  doesn't  do  to  show  it." 

"Nobody  would  guess!"  Dorothy  interrupted,  before 
he  had  qualified  his  first  assertion. 

"I  wish  you  would  guess ;  and  admire  my  self-control," 
urged  Louis.  "You  see,  you're  putting  me  in  the  posi- 
tion of  somebody  you  dislike,  who's  forced  himself  on 
you.  You're  making  me  seem  a  cad.  But  you  don't 
want  to  do  that,  do  you?"  He  was  appealing  to  her. 
It  was  not  without  effect. 


138  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"If  I  thought  .  .  .  that  ...  I  should  get  out  at  the 
next  station,"  Dorothy  said.  "Or  tell  you  to.  I  don't 
feel  that  at  all  now.  I  feel  you  are  my  cousin.  I  don't 
like  you,  of  course  .  .  ." 

"No.  I  don't  like  you  very  much,  either,"  Louis  re- 
marked, since  it  had  come  to  that. 

Dorothy  flinched,  and  flushed.  Then  she  laughed,  her 
eyes  gleaming  a  little  with  pain. 

"Don't  you?"  she  said.  "I  didn't  suppose  you  did. 
Why  should  you?  I  expect  you  think  it's  your  duty  to 
talk  to  me.  To  show  me  the  way  I  ought  to  go.  Like 
that  awful  woman  at  Beckwith." 

Louis  whistled.  He  felt  that  he  was  upon  the  verge 
of  a  discovery. 

"Was  it  Miss  Lampe?"  he  asked.  "Or  Mrs. 
Callum?" 

"I  don't  know.  They  all  look  alike,  to  me.  If  it 
was  one  of  two  I  expect  Miss  Lampe.  She  asked  me 
what  religion  I  was.  I  said  I  was  a  Mormon.  She  left 
a  tract.  She  wanted  subscriptions  for  half  a  dozen 
charities." 

"Miss  Lampe,"  said  Louis.  "That's  her  line.  Mrs. 
Callum's  is  funds." 

"She  was  a  very  stupid  woman." 

"Oh,  that's  no  help  to  me,"  Louis  admitted.  "But  if 
it  was  charities  it  was  Miss  Lampe.  You  must  be  very 
careful  of  her.  She's  a  dangerous  woman.  She  knows 
all  about  everybody  in  Beckwith.  She  sees  everything. 
She  is  the  one  who  lives  at  that  house  near  the  station. 
That  I  told  you  about,  you  know.  I  think  it  must  be 
furnished  with  telescopes;  for  nothing  goes  on  in  Beck- 
with that  she  doesn't  know  almost  before  everybody  else. 
Of  course,  in  Beckwith  everybody  knows  everything 
sooner  or  later.  It's  only  a  question  of  time.  But  this 
is  a  warning.  Whatever  you  do,  don't  let  Miss  Lampe 


IN  THE  TRAIN  139 

have  an  opportunity  of  making  mischief  about  you." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  anybody,"  Dorothy  said,  with  her 
head  high.  "Miss  Lampe  or  anybody  else." 

"You  would  be,  if  you  knew  her,"  warned  Louis. 
"I'm  not  joking." 

"A  spy  like  that!"  Dorothy  said  incredulously. 

"In  a  place  like  Beckwith.  I  assure  you.  She's  mali- 
cious. Don't  you  remember  what  we  said?  I  showed 
you  her  house,  near  the  station." 

Louis  spoke  so  seriously  that  Dorothy's  first  vanity, 
her  contempt  of  what  seemed  unworthy,  was  shaken. 
She  began  to  remember  forgotten  truth.  Her  colour 
diminished.  She  nodded  quickly,  now  fully  alive  to  the 
danger  which  he  was  striving  to  bring  home  to  her. 

"Miss  Lampe,"  she  said.  "I'll  remember.  And  she 
hates  me  already." 

iv 

Thereafter  they  began  to  talk  with  more  friendliness. 
Louis  thought  that  Dorothy  had  forgotten  her  first  sus- 
picions of  him,  for  she  was  completely  at  ease,  and  as 
she  had  no  affectation  whatever,  but  only  a  touchiness 
born  of  hatred  of  shops  and  hatred  of  those  who  patron- 
ised shop-keepers,  Dorothy  was  a  very  nice  companion. 
The  hat  which  he  had  thought  odd  had  disappeared. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  a  hat  for  country  walks  on  Sunday. 
She  was  dressed  inconspicuously,  in  a  deep  crimson  coat 
with  an  astrakhan  collar,  and  her  hat  was  black  with  deep 
crimson  decoration.  This  combination  of  colour  suited 
very  well  her  complexion.  It  heightened  the  refinement 
of  her  face.  When  that  face  was  not  expressing  dis- 
approval it  seemed  to  Louis  very  pretty  indeed.  Upon 
further  scrutiny,  Dorothy  was  evidently  not  more  than 
twenty  or  twenty-one.  Her  conversation  proclaimed  her 


140  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

youthfulness;  as  did  her  readiness  to  be  offended.  In 
two  or  three  years  she  would  learn  to  ignore  or  to  despise 
stupidity:  at  present  it  still  had  power  to  anger  her. 
But  Louis  felt  that  if  she  had  been  two  or  three  years 
older  he  might  have  found  it  more  difficult  to  make  her 
accept  his  friendship  as  the  result  of  a  casual  meeting  in 
the  train. 

"If  I  offer  to  come  round  one  evening,"  he  ventured, 
"you  won't  say  now  that  I'm  not  to  come.  Will  you?" 
Dorothy  did  not  hesitate.  She  looked  at  him  with  frank 
interest. 

"No,"  she  said.  Her  cheeks  began  faintly  to  glow,  to 
redden.  Her  lips  parted.  Her  expression  softened. 
Then :  "I  hope  you'll  try  and  forget  how  rude  I  was." 

"That's  splendid!"  exclaimed  Louis,  all  alight  with 
such  candour.  Rather  awkwardly,  he  went  on :  "I  say, 
do  you  mind  also  forgetting  what  I  said  about  not  liking 
you  ?  It  wasn't  true.  I  only  said  it  because  I  was  rather 
irritated  at  what  you  said.  I  didn't  mean  it." 

Dorothy  looked  suddenly  pleased.  Her  embarrass- 
ment had  subsided.  She  too  sparkled. 

"I'm  so  glad!"  she  said.  "I  meant  mine;  but  I  don't 
mean  it  any  longer." 

"Well — we're  all  right  now?"  he  asked.  "Will  you 
shake  hands?" 

As  they  shook  hands  the  train  drew  up  at  the  Beck- 
with  station.  They  walked  together  along  the  platform. 
Louis  knew  that  Dorothy  saw  old  Tonks,  the  ticket-col- 
lector, touch  his  hat  to  him ;  and  he  imagined  her  squirm 
of  impatience  at  the  feudal  note.  But  he  was  pleased 
to  observe  how  well  she  walked.  It  was  as  though  she 
were  perfectly  elastic,  but  also  without  self-consciousness. 
Those  Beckwith  girls  who  did  not  trip  along  without 
any  character  at  all  swung  their  arms  and  moved  their 
shoulders,  to  show  how  much  at  ease  they  were.  Doro- 


IN  THE  TRAIN 

thy  walked  as  though  she  did  not  think  about  her  motions. 
Looking  aside  at  her,  Louis  thought  that  she  must  be 
about  the  same  height  as  Veronica.  It  was  while  he 
was  thinking  this,  and  eagerly  regarding  her,  that  they 
passed  under  the  light  just  opposite  Miss  Lampe's  house. 
Dorothy,  looking  up  at  him  with  the  friendliest  of  smiles, 
said  impulsively: 

"I'm  so  glad  we  met  to-day.     It's  made  me  feel  quite 
different." 


CHAPTER  IX:  VERONICA 


HIS  talk  with  Dorothy  produced  in  Louis  a  curious 
revulsion  of  feeling.  For  him  she  was  changed. 
She  had  become  a  tremendously  desirable  new  friend. 
In  a  world  where  friends  were  so  scarce  the  establishment 
of  a  new  intimate  relation  was  a  notable  event.  If 
Dorothy  liked  him,  as  it  appeared,  there  was  no  end  to 
the  interest  such  a  friendship  might  provide.  For  one 
thing,  she  was  very  natural :  as  far  as  he  could  see  she 
would  always  remain  natural.  He  could  imagine  long 
interchanges  of  talk,  in  which  he  might  find  limitless  new 
knowledges.  Hitherto  he  had  felt  that  friendship  with 
a  girl  could  not  be  very  close,  and  could  not  last,  without 
the  arbitrary  forcing  of  such  friends  into  engagement 
and  marriage.  In  Beckwith  it  is  so.  Three  meetings, 
casual  or  planned;  and,  afterwards,  eyebrows  did  their 
work.  Either  the  girl  was  forced  to  abandon  friend- 
ship, or  she  was  forced  to  go  beyond  friendship.  Friends 
became  lovers  or  acquaintances.  Why?  He  had  never 
understood.  It  was  because  there  was  no  social  back- 
ground. All  the  relations  of  the  sexes  were  governed 
by  general  opinion.  Seen  alone  together  for  a  few  times 
they  must  either  announce  an  engagement  or  have  it 
very  actively  canvassed.  Sooner  or  later  general  opinion 
brought  matters  to  a  head.  There  were  hints,  blushes, 
self -consciousness  for  a  few  days,  a  ring  or  a  break. 
It  was  the  community  that  played  providence.  One  had 

142 


VERONICA  143 

duties,  it  was  explained.  Now  Dorothy,  Louis  felt,  was 
not  like  other  girls  in  that  respect.  She  was  unconven- 
tional— she  was  what  Miss  Lampe  and  the  servant-maids 
of  Beckwith  would  call  "rather  fast."  Louis  was  greatly 
pleased  at  such  a  recognition.  She  interested  him. 

Dorothy  interested  him.  She  seemed  to  Louis  to  be 
less  like  a  girl  than  a  human  being.  It  gave  him  a  rare 
delight  to  recognise  a  kindred  spirit — to  feel  aware  of  a 
character  to  be  explored.  Yes;  she  was  unusual.  She 
had  reserves;  she  was  strangely  frank.  He  remembered 
in  a  flash  that  reference  to  Daunton's  Ethel,  who  had  so 
contemptibly  betrayed  her  sex  by  saying  that  she  had 
never  been  loved  before.  Of  course  Dorothy  would  not 
say  such  a  thing  hysterically,  as  perhaps  Ethel  had  done ; 
but  Louis  was  swept  with  the  knowledge  that  she  would 
tell  him  candidly  what  she  thought  and  felt  about  a 
number  of  things  never  mentioned  by  Beckwith  girls. 
She  was  not  a  hoarder;  not  a  sentimental,  callous  girl- 
of-the-world.  There  was  about  her  something  real, 
something  vital,  that  he  could  recognize  and  admire. 
She  was  almost  like  a  man.  She  was  altogether  unlike 
Veronica  Hughes. 

How  remarkable!  Louis  was  struck  again  with  the 
difference.  She  was  somebody  as  unlike  Veronica  as  the 
mind  of  man  could  conceive.  Both,  of  course,  were  at- 
tractive ;  but  how  dissimilar !  That  brought  him  back  to 
Veronica,  whom  he  had  momentarily  forgotten  in  this 
new  preoccupation  with  his  girl-grocer  cousin  Dorothy. 
The  next  evening  Louis  went  to  call  upon  the  Hughes 
family,  because  he  wanted  to  see  Veronica.  He  only 
wanted  to  see  her.  He  dreaded  meeting  Mrs.  Hughes; 
he  felt  a  disinclination  for  Judith ;  and  a  persistent  aver- 
sion from  Adela.  But  after  all  this  thought  of  Dorothy 
it  had  become  a  necessity  to  him  to  see  Veronica. 

Rather  to  his  pleasure  he  found,  upon  reaching  the 


SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

house,  that  Veronica  was  alone ;  and  his  carriage  became 
more  buoyant  when  this  fact  was  announced  by  the  maid. 
He  was  distinctly  relieved.  As  he  entered  the  drawing- 
room  Veronica  stood  listlessly  turning  over  some  music 
which  lay  on  the  piano.  His  first  thought  was  that  she 
looked  and  felt  tired,  and  then  that  her  smile  was  slightly 
less  cordial  than  usual.  She  cried  "Hul-lo!"  at  seeing 
him,  but  her  manner  was  constrained  and  without  its 
general  vividness ;  so  that  Louis's  buoyancy  was  checked 
and  his  own  mood  appreciably  lowered.  A  bright  fire 
was  burning;  but  the  room  was  not  fully  lighted,  and  so 
it  had  a  desolate  air.  A  gloom  seemed  to  be  upon  it, 
and  Veronica's  quietness  was  as  much  of  a  surprise  as 
it  was  a  disappointment.  He  had  so  counted  upon  her 
gaiety!  This  dispirited  air  was  new  and  unwelcome. 
It  was  also  infectious,  for  Louis  began  to  feel  at  once 
a  corresponding  and  embarrassing  constraint. 

"All  the  others  out?"  he  asked,  in  a  friendly  way. 

"Father's  in,"  Veronica  said.  "In  his  room.  I'm  sure 
you'd  like  a  chat  with  him.  Wouldn't  you  ?" 

"He's  probably  asleep,"  guardedly  explained  Louis. 
"Shouldn't  you  think  so?" 

"Very  likely.  And  anyway  he's  rather  grumpy  to- 
night because  he  put  a  penny  in  a  machine  for  some 
matches  and  the  matches  scattered  all  over  the  platform." 

Veronica  spoke  dryly,  and  was  not  amused  at  the 
accident.  Louis  was  puzzled  at  her  tone,  and  at  the 
dull  expression  upon  her  face. 

"It  is  those  little  things,  of  course,"  he  admitted, 
sympathising  with  Mr.  Hughes. 

"Being  a  man,"  Veronica  said.  "I  suppose  it  is. 
Poor  dears!  Mother  and  Adela  are  at  the  Corntofts'. 
I  was  going ;  but  I  had  a  headache." 

"Real  or  diplomatic?"  asked  Louis.  "I'm  sorry  you've 
got  a  headache,  any  way." 


VERONICA  145 

Veronica's  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him.  It  was 
with  such  a  strange  expression,  as  she  stood  so  quietly 
near  him,  that  Louis  felt  almost  uncomfortable,  restless. 
He  was  puzzled.  There  was  so  much  unsaid  between 
them  that  he  felt  he  had  no  clue  to  her  feelings.  She 
was  a  mystery,  an  exquisite  mystery,  unfathomable. 

"Real,  of  course,"  Veronica  answered,  in  rather  a  chill- 
ing voice.  "Come  and  sit  down  by  the  fire."  They  sat, 
and  she  was  almost  immediately  opposite  to  him.  The 
fire  flickered  and  the  clock  ticked.  Outside  everything 
was  quiet.  Only  within,  alone  with  Veronica,  Louis 
touched  an  uneasy  happiness,  a  constrained  delight.  He 
saw  again  with  that  pervasive  thrill  her  exquisite  pretti- 
ness,  and  the  soft  fair  hair  which  he  could  imagine  as 
like  silk  against  his  hand.  As  Veronica  lay  back  in  her 
chair,  carelessly,  with  her  legs  crossed,  the  lifted  skirt 
revealed  her  pretty  ankles.  Her  whole  attitude,  if  list- 
less, was  charming.  It  seemed  that  his  heart  softened, 
as  though  he  were  wholly  filled  with  the  sense  of  her 
beauty.  He  could  not  resist  the  encroachment  of  a 
languor  similar  to  her  own.  When  he  spoke  again  it 
was  in  a  gentler  voice. 

"Is  the  headache  still  bad?"  he  asked.  "I  hope  it  isn't. 
You'll  tell  me  if  you'd  rather  I  didn't  stay?" 

Veronica's  head  was  turned  away.  She  was  watching 
the  light-flames  rising  from  the  fire. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  she  countered,  ignoring 
his  suggestion.  "Just  working?" 

"Practically  nothing  else,"  Louis  admitted.  "The  be- 
ginning of  the  year  is  a  terribly  busy  time  with  us. 
Though  I'm  feeling  very  lazy  myself."  They  fell  silent 
for  a  minute.  "No;  but  are  you  really  better?"  he  went 
on.  Veronica  moved  restlessly.  Her  head  was  turned 
towards  him,  and  then  away  again. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said  impatiently.     "It  comes  and  goes. 


146  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

I  always  have  headaches.  It  makes  me  more  interesting. 
You  have  to  have  something  the  matter  with  you;  or 
you  might  get  confused  with  somebody  else." 

"Only  by  somebody  who  didn't  know  you,"  he  ven- 
tured. A  slight  grimace  appeared  upon  Veronica's  lips. 
Her  tone  had  been  half-serious,  and  Louis  had  been  tak- 
ing it  as  wholly  bantering.  He  tried  to  cancel  the  bad 
impression.  "Are  the  Corntofts  amusing?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"Deadly !"  she  assured  him.  "Why,  their  one  idea  is 
to  talk  about  their  wretched  kid." 

"The  little  clarinetist?  But  I  thought  you  liked  her 
so  much !" 

"Did  you?"  Veronica's  tone  was  perfectly  listless. 
"She's  all  right  .  .  ." 

"But  don't  you  remember  ...  at  your  party.  In 
telling  me  about  her  .  .  .  ' 

"You're  thinking  of  Adela,  aren't  you?"  Veronica  in- 
terrupted dryly.  "She's  always  got  a  kind  word  to  say 
of  everybody.  Everybody  thinks  she's  so  intelligent  for 
seeing  their  good  points — almost  as  well  as  they  can 
themselves.  If  you  want  to  know,  I  think  the  clarinet's  a 
beastly  instrument." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  always  say  what  you  think?"  sug- 
gested Louis  considerately,  referring  to  her  surprisingly 
unkind  praise  of  Adela.  Veronica  made  a  tiny  laughing 
noise  that  was  not  a  laugh.  She  looked  very  far  from 
mirth :  there  was  a  bitter  sadness  in  her  expression,  lying 
beneath  the  air  of  apathy. 

"Why  don't  you  say  what  you  mean  ?"  she  said.  "That 
I'm  a  nasty  little  cat." 

Louis  did  not  answer  that.  He  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears. 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  unkind,"  he  said.  "Veronica ! 
You  can't  suppose  I  did?" 


VERONICA  147 

"Can't  I?"  Veronica  asked,  as  if  it  were  innocently. 
"I  suppose  you'd  know.  Well,  mother's  very  keen  on 
Mrs.  Corntoft;  and  the  Corntofts  have  got  a  cousin  who 
knows  somebody  who  conducts  an  orchestra.  And  so 
Adela's  been  invited  there  to  play  accompaniments  for 
Irene — and  praise  her — so  that  this  cousin  can  see 
whether  she's  good  enough  to  be  introduced  to  his  friend 
who  conducts  the  orchestra.  And  then  they'll  make  a 
child-marvel  of  her;  and  the  Corntofts  will  go  out  of  their 
minds  with  joy.  Pretty  prospect,  isn't  it !" 

He  was  really  distressed  at  her  tone,  which  was  pa- 
thetic in  its  strangely  unkind  flippancy. 

"She's  their  transferred  vanity,"  he  said.  "I  expect 
they  find  her  success  a  justification  of  their  own  lives." 
Veronica  smiled  satirically. 

"How  clever  that  sounds!"  she  said  in  a  light  voice. 
"Only  I  don't  know  what  it  means."  She  threw  him  a 
mocking  glance.  Her  eyes  were  still  bright,  but  he  no 
longer  feared  that  she  was  going  to  cry.  He  stumbled 
on. 

"If  the  motive  force  of  most  people  is  vanity,"  he  ex- 
plained, "as  I'm  coming  to  believe  it  is; — the  desire  to 
push  one's  children  must  be  a  sort  of  indirect,  or  trans- 
ferred .  .  .  re-embodied  .  .  ..vanity." 

That  shocked  her.  He  could  see  that  Veronica  was 
quite  unready  for  such  a  doctrine.  She  was  ready  to  re- 
pulse it  with  horror.  In  Beckwith  one  scratches,  but 
one  does  not  philosophise  one's  scratches,  because  that  is 
cynicism.  And  cynicism,  which  has  no  respect  for  discre- 
tion, is  in  horribly  bad  taste.  That  was  the  cause  of 
Veronica's  instinctive  recoil. 

"What  a  beastly  idea !"  she  cried.  "And  of  course  it's 
not  true." 

"You  only  mean,  you  don't  like  it,"  retorted  Louis. 
"But  it  mav  be  true,  all  the  same." 


148  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Louis,  it  isn't  true."  She  sat  up  in  her  chair,  her  face 
quite  alert,  eyeing  him  with  disapproval.  "I  think  you're 
perfectly  beastly  to  say  such  a  thing.  If  you  really  be- 
lieved things  like  that,  what  would  be  the  good  of  life, 
and  .  .  .  and  religion?" 

Into  Louis's  mind  there  had  come  a  curious  fear ;  and 
at  the  same  time  a  sort  of  confused  happiness  at  her  re- 
buttal of  his  theory.  He  was  glad  to  find  her  so  little 
cynical  by  conviction;  but  he  was  sorry  to  think  that 
her  refusal  even  to  pass  his  notion  without  protest  might 
be  an  indication  of  prudery. 

"You  think  they're  very  good  now  ?"  he  asked.  Veron- 
ica shook  her  head. 

"You  oughtn't  to  talk  like  that,"  she  protested.  "It  isn't 
nice.  Besides,  if  they  weren't  any  good  ...  if  people 
didn't  believe  in  something  they'd  .  .  .  they'd  .  .  ."  Her 
tongue  could  not  find  the  words. 

"I  think  they're  vain,"  Louis  said.  "Besides,  you  don't 
want  to  believe  in  anything  that  isn't  true  .  .  .  just  in 
case  it  might  be  useful  to  believe  in  it.  Do  you  ?  That's 
a  very  base  kind  of  Christian  utilitarianism." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  Veronica 
said,  with  energy.  "I  only  know  it's  beastly — and  fright- 
ening. So  don't  talk  about  it  any  more,  there's  a  good 
boy.  You  don't  know  anything  at  all  about  life;  and  you 
only  get  these  horrid  cynical  ideas  from  other  peo- 
ple. .  .  ." 

Louis  frowned.  He  was  very  exasperated  at  her  tone 
of  condescension. 

"You  always  pretend  I'm  such  a  kid,"  he  cried  sharply. 
"I'm  not.  I've  thought  a  good  deal.  I  know  what  I'm 
talking  about.  But  if  you're  frightened  to  think  a  thing, 
in  case  it  might  be  rather  unpleasant,  you  might  just  as 
well  have  no  brains  at  all." 


VERONICA  149 

"Well,  they  only  unsettle  you,"  Veronica  said.  "And 
make  other  people  unhappy." 

The  old  air,  momentarily  distracted,  of  a  curious  sad- 
ness, returned  to  her.  Louis  was  again  puzzled.  But  he 
was  snuffing  the  air,  like  a  war-horse.  The  light  of  battle 
was  in  his  eye.  There  is  no  means  of  knowing  what 
specious  arguments  he  might  have  used  to  support  his 
views,  if  he  had  not  noticed  that  Veronica's  hand  was 
trembling.  That  sight  changed  him  instantly. 

"Vera,  old  girl,  what's  the  racket?"  he  asked  in  a  quiet 
•voice.  "I  won't  argue  if  it  makes  you  wretched;  but 
you've  been  a  bit  miserable  all  the  evening,  so  I  don't  think 
it  can  really  be  that.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  quite  all  right.  Nothing  the  matter.  Silly  boy!" 
Veronica  said,  in  a  curious  dry  voice. 

"Sure?" 

"Of  course!  Sit  where  you  are!  I  don't  want  you 
fussing  round  me.  I've  got  a  cold  coming  on.  That's  all 
that's  the  matter."  She  was  so  defiant  that  she  half  con- 
vinced him. 

"I'd  just  like  to  say  this  one  thing,"  Louis  said  eagerly. 
"And  no  more.  If  you've  got  brains,  and  you  use  them, 
and  that  makes  you  think  differently  from  other  people, 
who  haven't  got  so  many  brains,  or  who  don't  use  them, 
are  you  in  the  wrong  ?  Mightn't  it  be  the  others  who  are 
wrong  ?" 

Veronica  stared  at  him,  incapable  of  answering  so  sus- 
piciously simple  a  doubt. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  petulantly  answered.  "I  know 
thinking  makes  you  restless,  and  makes  you  do  odd 
things ;  and  that  makes  other  people  unhappy.  So  it  can't 
be  right."  She  was  triumphant  at  least  in  that. 

"Why,  unhappy?"  he  begged. 

"I  suppose  .  .  .  because  they  like  you,"  Veronica  said. 


150  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Louis  was  astounded.  Her  voice  had  such  a  personal 
ring. 

"Are  you  talking  about  me?"  he  asked.    "Me !" 

"Weren't  you?  I  thought  you  were?  I  thought  it 
was  all  your  vanity !" 

"Bad  girl !"  Louis  cried.  "Wicked  girl !  Besides,  what 
I  said  had  nothing  to  do  with  me." 

"Hadn't  it?"  Veronica  spoke  indifferently.  Then: 
"Louis,  you  really  oughtn't  to  do  what  you've  been  do- 
ing," she  startlingly  began.  "It  makes  it  difficult  all 
round.  You  ought  to  think  of  other  people.  You  might 
know  how  silly  it  is.  It's  worried  me — all  of  us — dread- 
fully." He  was  amazed.  What,  then,  had  he  been  doing 
that  caused  such  distress? 

"Exactly  what  is  it,"  he  begged,  "that  I've  been  mis- 
doing?  I  don't  remember  anything  specially  bad." 

Veronica  looked  away.  He  saw  her  raised  foot  moving 
nervously,  as  though  she  would  have  tapped  it  upon  the 
floor.  A  frown  appeared  above  her  eyes  and  in  her  eyes. 

"I  suppose  it  doesn't  occur  to  you  .  .  ."  she  began. 
Then  she  shrugged.  "Oh,  never  mind!  If  you  won't  bear 
in  mind  what  it  means  to  your  real  friends." 

"To  you  ?"  he  asked,  his  heart  beating  faster.  "Do  you 
mean,  to  you?" 

"Yes."  Veronica  spoke  very  low.  She  was  looking  at 
him  again,  searchingly.  Louis  racked  his  brains  to  dis- 
cover some  fault  that  he  might  have  committed.  At  last 
he  shook  his  head. 

"Sorry,"  he  said  quickly.  "I  wish  I  could  think  of 
some  crime.  But  I  can't.  You  may  be  sure  I  haven't 
meant  to  do  anything  that  makes  you — of  all  people — 
miserable.  Is  that  the  cause  of  the  headache?" 

"You  must  know,"  Veronica  protested.  "I  mean,  think 
of  us,  and  .  .  .  and  everybody." 

"Say  it  right  out,"  he  begged.    "Tell  me  exactly  what !" 


VERONICA  151 

Veronica,  subdued,  seemed  also  astonished  at  what  she 
regarded  as  an  evasion.  When  his  face  continued  to  ex- 
press nothing  but  the  most  naive  bewilderment  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Going  about  with  that  girl !"  she  at  last  declared,  in  a 
strange  voice.  "It's  too  bad  of  you!" 

"That  girl  ?"  Louis  thought.  "Dorothy  ?  My  cousin  ?" 
How  on  earth  had  Veronica  learned  about  that  casual 
meeting?  How  had  she  been  led  to  misread  it  and  to 
exaggerate  its  significance?  He  was  for  a  moment  so 
completely  baffled  that  he  could  not  explain  her  obviously 
unfeigned  concern. 

Quickly,  Louis  remembered  that  Dorothy  and  he  had 
passed  within  the  ray  of  light  opposite  Miss  Lampe's 
house.  He  whistled.  A  blank  look  came  into  his  face. 


11 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  'going  about  with 
her,'  "  he  said  at  last.  "I  suppose  you  do  mean  my 
cousin?  I've  been  'going  about'  with  nobody.  But 
I  met  Dorothy  one  evening  in  the  train,  coming  home. 
As  I  might  have  met  you.  I  walked  with  her  to  the  shop. 
And  I  suppose  Beckwith  watched  us  all  the  way  from 
the  station." 

Veronica  listened  with  a  kind  of  horror. 

"As  you  might  have  met  me!"  she  cried.  "Well!" 
She  seemed  unable  to  believe. her  ears.  "D'you  mean  to 
say  .  .  .  Oh,  Louis !  You  are  an  innocent !" 

"I  suppose  it  was  Miss  Lampe  who  hurried  round  Beck- 
with .  .  .  charitably!"  Louis  said,  his  temper  rising 
quickly.  "How  these  people  watch !  But  to  think  of  you 
taking  any  notice  of  them !"  He  moved  in  his  chair,  un- 
able to  control  the  irritation  which  had  seized  him.  "And 
what  is  it,  after  all?  Because  I  met  my  cousin!" 


152  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"She's  not  your  cousin!"  Veronica  exclaimed  vehe- 
mently. "She's  a  shop-girl !" 

"My  father  keeps  a  money-shop,"  Louis  said.  "Don't 
be  so  absurd !  I'm  ashamed  of  you." 

"It's  you  that's  absurd!"  cried  Veronica.  "Money- 
shop,  indeed !  Whoever  heard  of  it !" 

"They're  only  ways  of  making  a  living!  Chemist's 
shop  and  surgery,  bank  and  grocery,  coals  and  soap  and 
oatmeal.  Serendipity  and  salvation!  Even  old  Toppett 
is  paid !" 

"Mr.  Toppett!  Oh,  really,  Louis!"  Veronica,  also 
agitated  beyond  bearing,  rose  to  her  feet.  Louis  followed 
her  example.  "You  know  it's  wrong!"  Veronica  said 
breathlessly.  "You're  only  blustering." 

"And  you're  only  being  conventional !"  Louis  retorted. 
"You  know  that  there's  no  harm  in  it.  You'd  talk  to 
Dorothy,  and  admire  her,  too,  if  she  lived  somewhere  else. 
Vou'd  see  that  she's  got  brains,  intelligence — honesty, 
Ivhich  is  more  than  Miss  Lampe  ever  had.  Mean,  spying 
Vvoman,  who's  got  nothing  better  to  do  than  backbite  and 
spoil.  She  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself.  She's  worse 
than  Mrs.  Daunton,  because  it's  not  her  business." 

Veronica  was  quite  white.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  have 
become  black.  She  breathed  with  difficulty.  Her  hands 
were  jerking;  her  face  was  averted,  as  though  she  could 
not  hold  her  head  straight  because  of  the  anger  and  dis- 
tress that  consumed  her. 

"I  wonder  .  .  .  why  it  is  .  .  ."  she  gasped,  "that 
.  .  .  common  girls  attract  men  so  much!" 

"Common  girls !"  Louis's  voice  was  thick.  "Dorothy ! 
Why,  she's  a  pearl  in  Beckwith.  Miss  Lampe  feels  her 
own  inferiority!  That's  why  she's  so  malicious  about 
her.  Now  look  here !"  He  tried  to  steady  himself.  "If 
Daunton's  girl  is  straight,  he's  going  to  marry  her.  Why 
shouldn't  he  ?  If  she's  the  kind  of  girl  he  wants.  We're 


VERONICA  153 

not  kings  and  queens,  who  have  to  marry  the  people  chos- 
en for  them.  We're  human  beings.  We  love  by  impulse." 

"Oh !  Oh !"  cried  Veronica,  suffocated.  "I  hope  .  .  . 
I  hope  you'll  be  happy.  She's  made  sure  of  you,  I  see!" 

Her  hands  were  up  to  her  face.  Her  body  was  shaken 
with  the  dreadful  sobs  which  she  could  no  longer  control. 
But  as  Louis  stepped  towards  her  she  moved  quickly 
away,  her  arm  extended  to  repel  him.  Louis,  his  mind 
overwhelmed  with  bitterness  and  chpgrin,  looked  down 
at  her,  his  fists  clenched,  his  lips  parted.  He  hated  and 
despised  her.  She  was  contemptible  to  him. 

"You  think  that!"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  very  low  voice. 
"You  say  that!" 

He  slowly  turned  away,  and  towards  the  door.  Veron- 
ica, drying  her  eyes,  and  blowing  her  nose,  followed  him, 
her  head  bent,  stricken  with  panic. 

"Louis !"  she  begged,  in  a  thin  wailing  voice.  "Don't 
go!  Don't  leave  me!" 

"I'm  too  angry!"  Louis  cried.  "I  can't  stay.  I  can't 
bear  to  stay !" 

In  a  white  heat  he  left  the  house,  chagrined  and 
ashamed.  For  the  moment  all  his  soft  thoughts  of  Veron- 
ica were  expelled,  their  place  taken  only  by  a  bitter  sensa- 
tion of  resentfulness  and  disappointment.  As  he  went, 
Veronica  groped  her  way  to  her  chair,  hysterically  crying. 


CHAPTER  X:  DOROTHY 


LOUIS  was  so  moved  and  excited  after  his  scene  witV 
Veronica  that  he  strode  along  without  thinking 
where  he  would  go.  He  was  far  too  full  of  anger  to 
return  home.  At  first  he  struck  across  the  common,  ex- 
claiming aloud  in  his  torment :  then,  suddenly,  he  checked 
himself  in  the  middle  of  the  open  space,  turning  in 
the  darkness  and  casting  a  wild  glance  about  him.  Veron- 
ica to  say  that!  Veronica  to  show  him  in  herself  the 
vulgar  heart  of  Beck  with!  And  Dorothy  to  suffer!  If 
Beckwith  could  but  know  her !  Not  Beckwith !  With  the 
muddled  instinct  of  those  birds  that  attack  and  destroy 
a  brilliant  stranger  among  them,  Beckwithians  made  their 
own  unforgivable  persecution.  Beasts ! 

Then  his  anger  passed,  and  he  gave  a  little  annoyed 
laugh  that  held  no  merriment.  There  was  only  one  pos- 
sible destination  for  him,  it  was  clear.  He  must  go  and 
see  Dorothy  and  William.  He  walked  back  straight 
across  the  common,  and  into  the  High  Street.  Lights 
were  still  showing  behind  the  little  shops  fringing  the 
green  space,  but  the  shops  themselves  were  closed.  It 
was  after  nine.  The  High  Street  was  also  in  darkness, 
but  already  a  promenade  was  in  progress,  up  and  down 
the  street,  and,  to  the  bolder  or  more  amorous,  in  the 
direction  of  the  common  and  the  sheltered  lanes  beyond. 
And  of  all  the  shops  Louis  saw  only  that  one  to  which 
his  steps  were  directed.  He  saw  none  of  the  passers,  and 

154 


DOROTHY  155 

heard  none  of  them,  although  their  steps  upon  the  rough 
road  made  a  heavy  clinking  noise,  like  clogs  upon  cobbles, 
and  their  voices,  and  the  artificially  heightened  laughter 
of  the  girls,  echoed  from  shop-front  to  shop-front. 

When  the  boy  Reggie  opened  the  door  beside  the  shop 
in  answer  to  Louis's  ring,  he  peered  out  with  a  frowning 
face.  His  welcome  was  grudging;  but  he  did  not  deny 
that  his  mother  and  father  were  at  home.  So  Louis 
walked  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  back  room  where  he 
had  first  seen  his  cousins.  There,  in  the  fire-glow,  and 
under  the  light  of  a  bright  gas,  sat  Mrs.  William,  darning 
socks,  with  a  pair  of  spectacles  precariously  resting  very 
far  down  towards  the  tip  of  her  nose.  At  a  table  behind 
her  mother,  with  what  seemed  to  be  an  enormous  day- 
book or  ledger  open  before  her,  was  Dorothy,  one  hand 
supporting  her  white  forehead  and  pushing  back  her 
heavy  hair.  She  had  evidently  guessed  the  visitor's  iden- 
tity and  named  Louis  to  her  mother,  for  Mrs.  William 
was  meditatively  fingering  her  spectacles,  and  looking 
embarrassed  at  being  caught  in  a  homely  occupation. 
William  was  not  in  the  room ;  but  as  Louis  was  advanc- 
ing he  heard  his  cousin's  voice  behind  him. 

"That's  a  real  good  lad!"  William  cried,  as  he  came 
into  the  room.  "Reg.  .  .  .  just  take  your  old  muck  off 
this  chair  for  your  cousin,  will  you  ?  .  .  .  Look  at  these, 
Louis — all  these  dummy  diagram  model  fallals.  Ever 
see  such  things  in  your  life?  The  boy's  just  brought 
them  down  to  show  us.  See,  look  at  this.  How  does 
it  work,  Reg.  ?" 

At  first  with  self-conscious  sulkiness,  but  gradually 
with  uncontrollable  enthusiasm,  Reggie  showed  how  by 
applying  energy  to  one  part  of  his  erection — which  could 
be  done  by  certain  mechanical  means  for  the  purchase 
of  which  he  demanded  money — all  the  other  parts  could 
be  set  in  motion  and  an  interesting  kinetic  problem  illus- 


156  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

trated.  Dorothy  left  her  account  book;  Mrs.  William 
bent  forward,  with  the  sock  still  sheathing  her  hand, 
and  looked  with  keen  interest  over  the  top  of  her  spec- 
tacles. They  were  all  absorbed  in  the  motion  of  this 
contrivance,  the  final  utility  of  which  was  hidden  from 
all  except  Reggie,  whose  invention  it  was. 

"Marvellous  where  he  gets  it  from,"  William  re- 
marked, turning  to  Louis.  "None  of  your  folk  given 
to  this  sort  of  thing ?  No;  nor  Mum's  here.  Give  Mum 
a  sock  to  mend,  or  a  pudding  to  make — none  better. 
But  both  these  kids  are  all  for  using  their  brains.  Here's 
Reg.  absolute  mustard  on  engineering;  and  Doll,  though 
she's  not  practical — never  had  the  chance,  poor  kid — 
knows  as  much  about  the  general  theory  of  it  as  Reg. 
himself.  She  keeps  my  books  better  than  I  can  keep 
them  myself;  she's  an  L.R.A.M.  who  can  play  your  head 
off;  and  she  keeps  her  own  head  as  no  young  person  I 
ever  met  has  done.  It's  all  the  shop,  you  know.  Mum's 
folk  are  all  in  the  grocery,  as  happy  as  wasps  in  mar- 
malade; but  these  kids — they  turned  against  shops  early. 
Turned  up  their  noses  at  bacon  and  tea.  No;  it's  not 
making  anything,  they  say.  If  you  want  to  be  real,  you 
must  make  bridges,  or  nouses,  or  pictures,  or  revolu- 
tions, or  something  of  the  kind.  Otherwise,  you're  a 
drone.  Doll  here  is  best  on  the  elocutionary  side.  She'll 
run  you  off  the  arguments.  Reg.  just  scowls  and  shoves 
his  models  under  your  nose." 

During  this  speech  Reg.  had  removed  his  model  and 
had  returned  to  his  own  room.  Mrs.  William  sat  beam- 
ing in  her  old  seat,  looking  from  William  to  Dorothy 
and  from  Dorothy  to  Louis,  her  humour,  and  her  pride, 
and  her  interest  in  Louis  all  aroused.  Dorothy  alone 
looked  grim,  candidly  condemning  her  father's  oratory 
and  his  interpretations. 

"Louis  doesn't  want  to  hear  all  that,  Dad."  she  at  last 


DOROTHY  157 

said.  "And  it's  not  true,  anyway.  It's  not  Reg.  and  I 
who  mind  about  the  shop.  It's  you  and  Mum.  And 
you  don't  mind  about  it  for  yourselves,  but  for  Reg. 
and  me.  And  Louis  doesn't  mind  about  it,  so  there's  no 
need  to  apologise  to  him.  When  Louis  comes,  forget 
all  your  .  .  ."  She  stopped  short,  for  she  had  clearly 
been  going  to  say  something  rude,  and  unbecoming  in 
a  speech  to  a  loved  one. 

William  looked  shrewdly  at  Louis,  who  did  his  best 
to  back  up  and  receive  the  glance  appropriately. 

"What  I  said  was  all  true,"  William  replied,  in  a 
speech  that  was  a  proclamation,  although  it  was  ad- 
dressed to  Louis.  "Take  no  notice  of  what  Doll  says. 
She's  a  woman,  and  so  she's  unscrupulous.  The  shop's 
been  the  iron  in  their  souls,  Louis.  It's  the  shop  that's 
made  them  aspire.  From  the  counter  to  the  Bench,  as 
you  may  say.  But  we  take  off  our  hats  to  them.  Don't 
we,  Mum  ?  We  take  off  our  hats  to  the  younger  genera- 
tion." 

"Don't  be  so  silly!"  said  the  younger  generation;  and 
her  pale  face  was  lighted  up  with  a  smile  so  inexpres- 
sibly beautiful  that  Louis  caught  his  breath  with  sudden 
wonder. 

ii 

"Take  a  seat,  Louis!"  pursued  William.  "And  if  you 
want  to  smoke — smoke.  Both  of  them  are  inoculated. 
I  smoke  shag  myself.  Used  to  smoke  plug;  but  Mum 
struck  at  it.  So  did  my  doctor.  Very  bad  for  the  heart, 
unless  you're  leading  an  open-air  life.  D'you  smoke  a 
pipe,  Louis?" 

"I  used  to ;  but  I  gave  it  up  when  I  came  home.  Gas- 
pers are  more  in  my  line  now,"  Louis  explained.  "My 
father's  got  a  great  dislike  of  pipes.  He  thinks  they're 
...  I  don't  know  what.  ." 


158  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"I  should  like  to  smoke  a  hookah,"  Dorothy  said. 
"They  sound  so  philosophic.  And  you  read  about  them 
in  such  beautiful  books,  like  'Eothen.' ' 

"Ah,  but  give  me  a  good  cigar !"  cried  William,  with 
enthusiasm.  "Nothing  to  beat  it.  I  once  had  a  box  of 
first-class  cigars  given  to  me;  and  I'll  never  forget  that 
box  as  long  as  I  live." 

"You  gave  them  all  away,  Will,"  said  Mrs.  William. 

"Eh?"  He  looked  disconcerted  for  a  moment. 
"Well,  I  gave  some  of  them  away,  I  grant;  but  very  far 
from  all  of  them,  my  dear.  And  they  were  all  smoked 
at  home — at  Holloway." 

"Holloway!  Wish  we  were  there  now!"  Dorothy 
cried. 

"Ee;  so  do  I,"  chorused  Mrs.  William,  looking  over 
the  tops  of  her  spectacles. 

William  ruffled  his  hair  and  glanced  for  aid  at  Louis. 

"Think  of  it !"  he  cried.  "I  bring  them  down  here  for 
the  air;  and  that's  what  they  tell  me!  Mind  you,  Louis; 
Beckwith  don't  appear  the  easiest  place  in  the  world  to 
get  on  with.  At  Holloway  all  our  customers  came  in 
for  their  things.  Used  to  wait  at  the  counter  for  their 
own  parcels,  and  they  were  like  human  beings.  But  here 
— Mrs.  So-and-so  comes  in  and  orders  threepennorth  of 
biscuits,  or  a  pot  of  jam,  or  some  little  thing  that  she's 
forgotten  when  the  boy  called  in  the  morning.  And  it's 
to  be  sent  home,  if  you  please,  in  time  for  this  meal  or 
the  other,  however  far  away  it  is.  And  such  airs  as  they 
give  themselves!  There  may  be  one  or  two  waiting; 
but  in  walks  my-lady,  and  starts  shouting  as  soon  as 
she's  inside  the  door.  Can't  stop  a  minute,  so  to  speak. 
The  common  people  must  stand  aside.  I  feel  like  say- 
ing, Take  your  turn,  old  dear' ;  but  if  I  did  that,  she'd 
go  off  and  tell  all  her  friends  what  a  rude  man  Mr. 
Vechantor's  cousin  is.  So  independent  .  .  .  don't  know 


DOROTHY  159 

what  shopkeepers  are  coming  to.  ...  So  I  just  have  to 
kiss  my  hand  to  her,  so  to  speak,  and  pretend  to  be  very 
grateful.  They  tell  me  Peel  always  ran  out  and  held 
the  door  open.  ...  It  doesn't  do  to  lose  a  customer, 
Louis.  Not  in  this  sort  of  business." 

"You're  doing  it,"  Dorothy  said,  in  her  clear  voice. 
William's  face  became  more  serious. 

"Yes.  That's  true,"  he  admitted.  "One  or  two.  One 
or  two." 

"Why  is  that?"  Louis  was  startled.  William  hoisted 
his  shoulders  in  a  wry  shrug. 

"Ah !"  he  said.  "Now  you  have  me.  A  bit  shy  of  the 
name,  perhaps.  Or  meant  to  do  it  before  and  didn't 
like  to  break  with  Peel.  Can't  say.  I've  had  no  com- 
plaints. The  goods  are  the  same;  and  they're  delivered 
promptly  by  the  same  boys  as  before.  It's  just  the  up 
and  down,  give  and  take  of  trade.  There  it  is,  Louis. 
You  can't  account  for  it." 

"People  like  Miss  Lampe  and  Mrs.  Callum?"  sug- 
gested Louis. 

"Miss  Lampe?  Ph!"  said  Dorothy.  "She's  never 
been  a  real  customer  here  at  all.  She  only  buys  her 
odds  and  ends  here.  She  gets  everything  she  wants  from 
the  Stores." 

"Never !"  cried  Louis.  "It's  not  done !  I've  heard  all 
Beckwithians  say  over  and  over  again  that  it's  their  duty 
to  support  the  local  shops." 

"Ah !"  said  William  dryly.  "You  don't  know  the  la- 
dies, Louis.  Some  of  their  ways  are  very  odd,  I  assure 
you." 

"And  Miss  Lampe  lives  so  near  the  station,"  Dorothy 
added,  laughing,  "that  nobody  can  see  what  she  has 
down  by  train." 

"Really!"   exclaimed   Louis.      His   indignation    with 


160  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Miss  Lampe  seemed  to  reach  a  point  hitherto  unimag- 
inable. 


111 


"The  truth  is,"  Dorothy  went  on  frankly,  after  a  lit- 
tle pause,  "that  Louis  doesn't  know  very  much  about 
anything.  He's  too  trusting.  He  thinks  people  mean 
what  they  say.  Well,  I  learnt  long  ago  that  they  don't 
They  wish  they  did!  They  spend  their  lives  wishing 
they  did!" 

"I'm  glad  they  don't,  sometimes,"  Louis  protested, 
with  a  significant  emphasis.  He  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  Dorothy  smile  at  his  reproof. 

"They're  always  pretending  something  or  other.  Pre- 
tending to  be  modest,  or  good,  or  kind.  But  it's  only  a 
pretence.  They're  really  only  inquisitive,"  Dorothy 
went  on.  "That's  the  best  you  can  say  about  them.  All 
the  people  who've  been  here — including  the  clergyman 
— have  come  to  find  out  about  us.  Not  to  love  us,  but 
to  see  our  furniture,  and  if  our  hands  are  dirty,  and 
how  many  spoons  we've  got,  and  if  we  do  our  own  house- 
work. Anything  to  make  a  tattle  at  the  tea-parties." 

Louis  and  William  looked  at  each  other.  They  could 
not  contradict  Dorothy:  they  both  may  have  wished  to 
do  so.  Louis,  feeling  so  warm  after  his  talk  with  Veron- 
ica, even  nodded  with  unwilling  assent.  Such  a  speech 
made  Louis  remember  what  he  had  learnt  from  Veronica, 
and  he  saw  this  differently.  So  far  it  had  appeared  to 
him  as  an  encroachment  upon  his  own  liberty.  Now  it 
suddenly  assumed  a  larger  significance.  Beckwith  had 
begun  to  resent  the  new-comers  so  strongly  because  it 
had  found  them  unmalleable.  It  was  not  that  they  were 
his  cousins,  or  that  he  visited  them  (though  these  things 
counted)  :  it  was  that  Beckwith  had  found  them  too  busi- 
ness-like. They  were  in  Beckwith  for  purposes  of  trade ; 


DOROTHY  161 

and  Beckwith's  standards  are  moral.  Beckwith  was  irri- 
tated with  them.  Even  if  they  had  not  been  Vechantors 
they  would  have  found  Beckwith  suspicious;  but  with 
that  added  constituent  the  outlook  suddenly  appeared  to 
Louis  to  be  darker  than  ever. 

"I've  been  wondering,"  he  said  at  last.  And  then  he 
stopped.  They  all  regarded  him  with  friendly,  trust- 
ful faces,  towards  which  he  looked  in  an  unusual  hesi- 
tation. Encouraged  thus,  he  went  on :  "The  people 
here  are  very  'funny.'  You  know  that.  They're  very 
angry — it's  no  business  of  theirs,  of  course;  but  they 
think  everything  is  their  business — they're  angry  with 
you  for  coming  here.  They  feel  it's  something  unfit- 
ting .  .  .  inopportune.  And  they're  not  content  with 
feeling  that.  They're  genuinely  angry,  and  worried,  and 
hostile.  They'll  want  to  drive  you  away.  Some  of 
them  may  think  that  by  taking  away  their  custom  they'll 
show  their  displeasure  and  make  you  give  up  the  shop. 
Perhaps  they  don't  mean  that;  but  that's  the  impulse. 
And  I  think  they're  specially  angry  with  you  for  having 
two  .  .  .  well,  clever  .  .  .  children.  You  see,  Reggie 
wears  a  badge  on  his  cap;  and  that  offends  them  dread- 
fully; and  Dorothy  looks  as  though  she'd  got  too  much 
character  for  Beckwith ;  and  they  feel  they  ought  to  snub 
her.  They'd  feel  that,  anyhow.  But  as  she  takes  no 
notice  of  them,  they  think  .  .  .  something  ...  I  can't 
explain;  but  I  think  they  feel  helpless  about  it.  Pres- 
ently, of  course,  they'll  settle  down;  but  meanwhile 
they're  in  a  great  flutter,  and  I  expect  they're  wonder- 
ing how  they  can  bring  their  weight  to  bear  on  you. 
If  you'd  come  to  live  at  an  ordinary  house  they  couldn't 
touch  you.  You  wouldn't  have  any  friends  among  them ; 
but  you  wouldn't  want  any.  It's  only  because  they  can 
attack  you  through  your  business  that  you're  vulnerable, 
I  think." 


162  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

He  broke  off,  reddening  at  such  a  long  speech.  He 
found  Mrs.  William  gazing  at  him  over  her  spectacles 
with  an  expression  of  inhuman  wisdom;  and  William, 
after  looking  down  at  the  floor  for  a  moment,  nodded 
quietly  without  replying.  Dorothy  was  smiling,  her 
eyes  dark.  He  glanced  appealingly  at  her  and  was 
warmed  by  her  return  glance  of  confidence.  He  went 
on  again. 

"This  evening — what  really  brought  me  here  was  an 
extraordinary  conversation  with  somebody  in  Beckwith 
who  upbraided  me  with  having  anything  to  do  with  you. 
Apparently  somebody  has  been  going  round  .  .  ."  He 
began  to  stammer.  "Pretending  that  it's  you  who  are 
luring  me  into  your  wicked  clutches,  so  as  to  establish 
yourselves  here.  .  .  .  That  you're  monsters,  you  under- 
stand. Of  course  it  is  horribly  perverse,  and  stupid, 
and  as  far  as  I'm  concerned  it  doesn't  in  the  least  mat- 
ter. Don't  think  that.  But  when  you  say  you've  lost 
custom  I  see  ...  or  I  think  I  see  .  .  .  that  perhaps  it 
may  be  this  venomous  pettiness  that  is  working  in  their 
minds.  I  think  you  ought  to  know.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  William  meditatively  said.  "Yes,  Louis  .  .  . 
Yes."  His  tone  was  one  of  acquiescence. 

"But  we  guessed  it,  didn't  we,  Dad?"  Dorothy  sup- 
plemented. 

"You  did,  my  dear,"  he  agreed. 

"I've  had  a  lady  talking  to  me  about  it  to-day,"  said 
Mrs.  William,  in  her  quiet  voice.  "She  was  very  anx- 
ious— she  said — for  all  our  sakes,  that  'such  an  unde- 
sirable acquaintance'  should  be  stopped.  She  said  'Mr. 
Louis'  held  such  a  high  position  in  the  district.  .  .  .  And 
that,  after  all,  we  were  only  shop-keepers.  She  said  she 
didn't  want  to  hurt  my  feelings  .  .  ." 

"Mum!"  cried  Dorothy,  flushing  deeply.  "Do  you 
mean  you  listened  to  her?" 


DOROTHY  163 

"Yes,  dear.  I  listened.  There  was  nothing  else  to 
do.  She  hadn't  paid  for  her  tea,"  said  Mrs.  William. 
"I  was  waiting  to  remind  her." 


IV 

There  was  a  curious  smile  on  William's  face.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  wife.  "Mum's  very  keen  after  the  cop- 
pers," he  explained  to  Louis.  "I've  known  her  go  after 
somebody  right  down  the  street,  just  for  fourpence- 
ha'penny.  Not  here,  of  course." 

"What  else  did  she  say?"  demanded  Dorothy,  still 
with  that  indignant  colour  in  her  cheeks. 

"She  said,  my  dear,  that  of  course  you  couldn't  be 
expected  to  understand  such  things  properly;  but  that 
it  was  giving  Mrs.  Vechantor — that's  Louis's  mother — 
a  lot  of  anxiety.  That  she  spoke  for  our  own  good. 
Oh,  a  lot  of  other  things  she  said  .  .  ." 

"What  other  things?"  asked  Dorothy.  "As  I  come 
into  it." 

"Things  she'd  no  business  to  say,  dear,"  Mrs.  William 
gently  explained. 

"It's  simply  scandalous!"  cried  Louis,  as  red  as  Dor- 
othy, and  again  vehement  with  rage. 

"What  things?"  persisted  Dorothy.  "What  things, 
Mum?"  Mrs.  William  shook  her  head.  She  was  even 
more  determined,  it  appeared,  than  her  daughter. 

"I  wouldn't  repeat  them,"  she  said.  "Even  if  I  could. 
They  ought  never  to  have  been  thought,  let  alone  said." 

"Oh !"  cried  Dorothy.  She  turned  upon  Louis.  "And 
you've  lived  here  all  your  life!" 

"I've  been  away  a  good  deal,"  he  urged  in  extenua- 
tion. "And  what  she  said  about  mother  is  a  fabrica- 
tion. It's  certainly  not  true.  We're  not  like  that. 
Really,  Dorothy!" 


164  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"I  was  pitying  you!"  cried  Dorothy.  "But,  Mum! 
"Didn't  you  stop  her?" 

"No,  dear.  Nothing  would  have  done  that,"  said 
Mrs.  William. 

"She'd  got  it  off  by  heart,  I  expect,"  William  added. 
"There's  no  stopping  them  when  they're  that  way  in- 
clined. I'd  as  soon  try  to  stop  a  train  by  holding  up 
my  hand." 

"What  did  you  do,  then?"  Dorothy  asked.  "Surely 
you  .  .  .  Surely  you  were  rude  to  her!" 

"No,  dear,"  Mrs.  William  answered.  "What  was  the 
good  of  that?  I  just  waited  till  she'd  said  all  she'd  got  to 
say,  and  then  I  said,  Thank  you,  ma'am.  That'll  be 
fivepence  three-farthings.'  She  didn't  say  anything 
after  that,  and  I  put  the  money  in  the  till.  I  haven't 
thought  of  it  since ;  but  of  course  I  think  it's  a  great  pity, 
and  I'm  very  sorry  for  poor  Mrs.  Vechantor  .  .  ." 

Louis  rose  to  his  feet.  He  felt  as  though  he  were 
choking  with  mingled  anger  and  laughter. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  home  to  talk  to 
my  mother  about  it.  It  can't  go  on  like  this !" 

Mrs.  William  shook  her  head  almost  imperceptibly; 
but  Dorothy  made  a  step  forward. 

"Louis,"  she  said  quickly,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  think 
you're  most  awfully  decent.  Really." 

"I'm  as  proud  of  you,"  Louis  replied,  in  a  similar  low 
voice,  "as  I'm  ashamed  of  Beckwith.  And  I  wish  I 
knew  how  I  could  show  it.  I  will  show  it.  You'll  see!" 

Louis  was  prophetic  in  this.  He  was  embarked  upon 
an  enterprise  that,  for  all  its  oddness,  or  rather  perhaps 
because  of  its  curious  nature,  threatened  to  be  full  of 
grotesque  difficulties.  But  as  he  spoke  Louis  did  not 
realise  the  full  meaning  of  his  promise,  or  the  strength 
of  the  instinct  he  was  combating. 


CHAPTER  XI:  THE  BREAK 


HE  walked  home  in  a  state  of  high  excitement.  All 
that  turbulent  emotion  which  had  been  stirred 
within  him  by  the  scene  with  Veronica,  which  had  been 
dissolved  by  his  sense  of  communion  with  the  simple  peo- 
ple he  had  been  with,  was  revived  and  exacerbated  by 
the  tale  of  the  protesting  lady.  Once  more  he  was  quiv- 
ering with  a  ridiculous  rage.  It  was  ridiculous,  because 
it  was  unavailing,  and  because  it  exhausted  his  nerves; 
but  it  was  in  another  sense  not  at  all  ridiculous.  It  was 
the  sign  of  his  new  passionate  love  of  individual  values. 
It  was  the  indignation  of  youth  against  the  instinct  of 
oppression;  and  if  the  immediate  occasion  was  small, 
out  of  all  proportion  to  Louis's  vehemence,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  men  are  indignant  not  with  incidents 
but  with  the  forces  which  they  see,  or  think  they  see, 
symbolised  in  such  incidents.  Miss  Lampe,  sitting  cos- 
ily by  her  fire,  playing  patience,  whole-heartedly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  baffling  chances  of  that  inept  and  engross- 
ing game,  had  as  little  the  air  of  an  oppressor  as  any 
friend  of  tyranny  could  have  desired.  But  Louis,  going 
behind  the  artless  gamester,  saw  Miss  Lampe  as  a  dread- 
ful and  wicked  irresponsible.  Who  shall  judge  between 
Louis  and  Miss  Lampe?  Miss  Lampe  a  true  Christian, 
collecting  for  charities,  desiring  that  all  should  be  driven 
for  their  own  good  forcibly  into  the  path  of  virtue  and 
social  convenience,  and  kept  there;  Miss  Lampe,  full  of 

165 


166  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

conscious  rectitude,  scrupulously  economical  in  her  own 
affairs,  curious,  interested  in  the  life  about  her  and  de- 
sirous of  regulating  it  for  its  own  good  in  accordance 
with  the  strict  teaching  of  the  Church  and  the  Beck  with 
standards.  Louis,  half  Miss  Lampe's  age,  full  of  half- 
baked  knowledges  and  theories  of  life,  arrogant,  scep- 
tical, practically  an  unbeliever  in  all  the  doctrines  by 
which  Miss  Lampe  regulated  her  life  and  for  their  own 
good  sought  to  regulate  the  lives  of  others,  aspiring  to 
heights  of  feeling  and  vision  that  Miss  Lampe  was  un- 
conscious of  shunning.  Miss  Lampe  social  and  soci- 
able; Louis  passionately  individualistic  and  perverse. 
Miss  Lampe  resting  comfortably  in  the  middle  of  her 
appropriate  milieu;  Louis,  newly  awakened,  struggling 
to  antagonise  himself  with  the  community.  And,  when 
they  met,  Louis  coldly  contemptuous,  Miss  Lampe  bird- 
like  and  suspicious,  but  flattered  and  talkative.  If  only 
one  could  know  which  way  is  best  to  follow — the  way  of 
Miss  Lampe,  or  the  way  of  Louis — how  much  simpler 
life  would  be! 

ii 

It  was  still  comparatively  early — it  was  not  yet  half- 
past  ten — when  he  reached  Apple  House.  The  servants 
of  course  were  all  in  bed,  because  they  had  to  rise  early ; 
but  the  Vechantors  rarely  went  to  bed  before  eleven  or 
half -past.  Accordingly,  Louis  entered  the  drawing- 
room  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  both  his  mother  and 
father.  Only  his  father  was  there,  smoking  a  cigar  and 
reading  an  old  book.  It  was  perhaps  that  fact — the 
fact  that  the  two  met  alone — that  precipitated  the  crisis. 
They  merely  nodded  to  each  other,  and  Louis,  sniffing 
at  his  father's  beautiful  cigar,  was  reminded  of  Wil- 
liam's reminiscence.  An  impulse  came  to  him  to  send 
William  a  box  of  such  cigars  as  his  father  smoked. 


THE  BREAK  167 

Why  should  he  not  do  so  ?  He  made  a  mark  in  his  note- 
book so  that  he  might  be  reminded  on  the  morrow.  The 
thought  of  giving  a  pleasant  surprise  lightened  his  heart. 
All  the  same,  he  was  far  from  being  at  his  ease.  His 
other  emotions  had  prepared  him  to  feel  aware  of  his 
father's  suppressed  disapproval  of  his  whole  outlook. 
They  were  no  longer  friends.  That  link  was  broken. 
His  father  was  just  a  man — not  the  oracle  of  former 
days.  Estrangement  could  go  no  further,  because  it 
was  common  to  both  of  them.  Louis  was  restless,  di- 
vided between  staying  and  going  to  bed.  But  as  he  hesi- 
tated his  father  put  aside  the  book  and  forked  that  sud- 
den glance  from  Louis's  face  to  his  feet.  He  saw  a  slim 
young  man  with  carefully  brushed  black  hair  and  mous- 
tache, a  young  man  with  a  troubled  face,  whose  pallor 
lent  brightness  to  his  eyes ;  but  he  did  not  see  the  son  of 
his  heart,  upon  whom  his  ambitions  had  been  fixed  for 
six-and-twenty  years. 

"Louis,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Sit  down. 
Toppett  has  been  here  this  evening.  He  tells  me  an 
extraordinary  story.  The  man's  a  clumsy,  practical  bul- 
lock; but  he's  not  a  fool." 

Directly  his  father  began  to  speak  Louis  realised  what 
was  coming.  The  knowledge  braced  him  as  cold  water 
would  have  done.  His  anger,  his  restlessness,  both  dis- 
appeared. He  became  once  again  Louis  Vechantor,  the 
young  man  who  at  Oxford  had  learnt  to  control  himself 
and  to  regard  evils  ironically.  For  the  first  time  that 
evening  he  was  talking  to  one  who  was  his  equal  in  edu- 
cation. He  had  nothing  to  fear,  because  he  knew  he 
would  be  able  to  speak  without  translating  his  thoughts 
into  another  idiom. 

"I've  sometimes  thought  he  sailed  pretty  near  it,"  he 
ventured  nonchalantly.  Again  that  forking  glance  from 
under  his  father's  bushy  eyebrows. 


168  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"At  any  rate,"  the  older  man  explained;  "he  doesn't 
lose  his  head.  He's  not  hysterical.  I  think  that's  a 
good  deal  to  be  able  to  say  of  a  man  in  his  position.  In 
these  days.  Well,  now,  he  came  about  a  variety  of  mat- 
ters ...  the  Church  Rooms,  and  so  on.  But  after  a 
time  he  began  to  talk  about  you.  I  see  you  know  what 
he  said.  He  told  us — I  had  no  idea  before — that  you've 
been  frequently  seeing  these  people.  It's  all  over  Beck- 
with.  He  saw  you  going  there  this  evening.  Now,  as 
he  says,  it's  one  thing  for  him  to  go  there,  because  such 
visits  lie  within  the  range  of  his  parochial  duties;  but 
it's  quite  another  thing  for  you,  considering  your  rela- 
tion to  me,  and  my  relation  to  the  district,  to  go.  ... 
He's  been.  He's  seen  the  family.  He's  talked  to  them, 
and  he's  also  talked  to  others  who  have  been  as  a  mat- 
ter of  parochial  business." 

"That  means  Miss  Lampe,"  Louis  could  not  help  say- 
ing. 

"That  woman?     Oh.     I  didn't  realise  it  was  she." 

"I  gather  several  people  have  been  interfering  a  good 
deal,"  Louis  added.  "But  Miss  Lampe  has  certainly 
been  very  busy.  I  met  Dorothy — that's  William's 
daughter — in  the  train  one  evening;  and  Miss  Lampe  has 
been  telling  everybody  that  we  go  for  long  walks  to- 
gether. I  once  met  them  out.  And  I've  been  twice  to 
see  them.  That's  the  sum  of  my  relation  with  them. 
They're  very  good  sorts,  and  I  like  them." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,"  said  his  father.     "You  like  them?" 

"Very  much.  William  and  his  wife  are  awfully  de- 
cent; the  boy's  clever,  and  going  to  be  an  engineer; 
Dorothy's  something  quite  unusual." 

"H'm.  Toppett  takes  a  different  view.  He  says 
they're  quite  impossible." 

"Then  he's  wrong."  Louis  kept  his  temper;  but  his 
decision  was  summary. 


THE  BREAK  169 

"Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Vechantor.  "I  take  it  that  you 
intend  to  keep  up  the  acquaintance?" 

"I  should  be  proud  to,"  admitted  Louis.  "I  should 
say  they're  a  good  deal  above  the  level  of  intelligence  in 
Beckwith."  He  met  his  father's  eyes  squarely,  almost 
with  an  air  of  defiance. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Vechantor.  "You  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about." 

"After  all,"  Louis  remarked  coldly,  "I've  seen  them." 

His  father  looked  quickly  away.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence.  Mr.  Vechantor  resumed: 

"Louis,  you  understand  that  we  represent  the  soci- 
ety of  Beckwith.  I  suppose  I'm  the  most  important  resi- 
dent in  the  town.  My  name  carries  most  weight,  per- 
haps. I'm  accustomed  to  a  good  deal  of  deference. 
One  has  to  think  of  one's  position  in  a  place  like  this. 
It  has  to  be  conserved,  unless  one  is  to  be  eccentric,  and 
regarded  as  such.  I  don't  see  my  way  to  entering  into 
relations  with  these  people.  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  we  must  regard  them  as  having  no  claim  upon  us. 
I  don't  wish  you  to  see  them.  I  wish  you  to  explain  to 
them — or,  perhaps,  not  to  explain,  as  that  ought  never 
to  have  been  necessary — that  you  can't  continue  to  see 
them."  His  command  was  gently  expressed;  but  he 
spoke  as  one  who  had  but  to  request. 

Louis  paled.  He  moved,  so  that  he  was  looking  di- 
rectly away  from  his  father. 

"You  don't  mention  an  alternative,"  he  said,  rather 
breathlessly. 

"There  is  no  alternative,"  said  Mr.  Vechantor. 

"Oh,"  Louis  answered.  "You  don't  understand.  I'm 
not  able  to  take  that  view.  It's  quite  impossible  for  me 
to  give  up  seeing  them.  Unless,  of  course,  they  .  .  .  de- 
spise us  all  too  much." 


170  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Mr.  Vechantor  drew  a  deep  breath.  His  brows  were 
drawn  ironically. 

"I  recognise  that  such  a  position  has  its  picturesque- 
ness,"  he  said  quietly.  "But  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  I 
must  insist  on  your  doing  as  I  said." 

Louis  suddenly  laughed.  It  was  not  a  bitter  laugh, 
but  it  was  a  nervous  laugh. 

"How  antediluvian!"  he  exclaimed;  and  walking 
quickly  across  the  room  he  left  his  father  alone,  think- 
ing, perhaps,  of  the  prestige  of  the  Vechantors  of  Beck- 
with. 


in 

The  door  of  his  mother's  room  was  open.  She  was 
sitting  by  the  fire,  and  would  be  going  to  bed  as  soon  as 
he  had  bidden  her  good-night.  At  his  step  upon  the 
threshold  she  looked  over  her  shoulder,  smiling  and  nod- 
ding. 

"Are  you  going  to  bed  now  ?"  she  asked.  "I'm  going 
now." 

"Are  you?  Yes;  I  shall  go.  ...  I  say,  mother;  you 
know  what  father's  been  talking  to  me  about.  That 
doesn't  represent  your  view,  does  it?"  He  was  different 
again  from  what  he  had  been  with  his  father.  His 
mother's  presence  always  soothed  him ;  his  manner  to  her 
was  always  more  gentle,  even,  it  might  have  appeared, 
to  some  observers,  more  docile.  Mrs.  Vechantor  looked 
up  into  his  face  before  answering. 

"Well,  dear  .  .  .  I'm  told  they're  not  very  nice  peo- 
ple," she  said  quietly. 

"But  you  don't  believe  that?"  he  urged.  "Surely, 
mother!" 

"I'm  afraid  I  ...  You  see,  Louis,  I've  been  told 
certain  things  about  them  .  .  ." 


THE  BREAK  171 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see  them  for  yourself?  You'd 
find  that  all  these  busybodies  have  .  .  .  have  taken  with 
them  what  they  wanted  to  see."  His  mother  still  anx- 
iously regarded  him.  "You'd  believe  me,  wouldn't 
you  ?"  Louis  went  on.  "Rather  than  Miss  Lampe,  who's 
a  mischief-maker.  And  I  can  assure  you  that  I  know 
them  better  than  all  the  Lampes  and  Callums  and  Top- 
petts  in  Beckwith." 

"My  dear  old  boy,  you're  not  very  old,  you  see.  .  .  . 
And  a  pretty  face  .  .  ." 

"Mother!"  cried  Louis.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Mr.  Toppett  has  no  reason  at  all  to  misrepresent  them. 
He's  an  extremely  honest  man." 

"But  he's  been  primed  by  the  Lampes  of  Beck- 
with. .  .  ."  Louis  was  aghast  at  her  attitude.  He 
might  have  cried  "Et  tu  Brute!"  It  was  the  beginning 
of  his  slow,  bitter  disappointment. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  his  mother  said. 

"You  refuse  to  go  and  see  them?  Let  me  ...  let 
me  at  least  bring  Dorothy  to  see  you,"  he  urged. 

"I've  seen  her  in  church,  Louis.  I've  seen  all  of  them 
in  church." 

"I  always  thought  that  was  a  passport!"  he  cried. 

"Oh,  Louis,  you  frighten  me!"  said  Mrs.  Vechantor. 
"I've  been  very  anxious  about  you.  Really  anxious. 
You  concealed  the  fact  that  you  knew  them  at  all.  And 
to  hear  that  you're  with  them  so  often !  Do  .  .  .  please, 
Louis  .  .  .  Do  think  a  little  of  your  mother!" 

There  had  come  into  Louis's  eyes  an  expression  of 
hopelessness.  Well,  he  had  no  longer  that  illusion,'  he 
thought.  His  mother  was  not  "different"  after  all.  She 
was  the  same.  It  was  no  good!  One  by  one  his  con- 
fidences had  given.  With  a  wooden  face  he  stooped  and 
kissed  her.  His  mother  caught  at  his  hand,  and  pressed 
it,  striving  in  this  way  to  force  the  exchange  of  a  lov- 


172  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

ing  look  which  should  cancel  all  their  differences;  but 
his  heart  was  chilled. 

"Good  night,  mother,"  Louis  said.     "I'm  very  sorry 

indeed." 

He  went  slowly  into  his  room,  thinking  deeply,  stand- 
ing long  before  the  fireplace. 


IV 

This,  then,  was  over.  He  had  been  instructed  to  drop 
his  cousirfs.  Just  as  though  he  were  a  little  boy  still, 
incapable  of  forming  any  judgment  for  himself.  He 
was  no  longer  angry,  but  he  was  heart-sick.  He  loathed 
Beckwith  as  he  had  never  before  loathed  it.  There  was 
no  more  impatience  with  it;  there  was  a  deep  distaste. 
The  place  was  rank.  It  had  no  human  standards;  only 
the  stupid  little  spying,  jealous  taboos  of  a  primitive 
community.  Totemism  was  rational  compared  with 
such  a  beastly  little  faith.  One  must  not  disbelieve  in 
the  faith  of  worldly  goods  and  worldly  position,  because 
if  one  disbelieved  one  produced  a  subtle  discomfort. 
And  the  William  Vechantors  were  a  foreign  body. 
They  were  to  be  expelled  by  the  wonderful  natural  forces 
governing  Beckwith.  There  had  been  no  attempt  to 
grapple  with  them.  Only  to  get  rid  of  them.  First  to 
ignore  them,  and  then  to  get  rid  of  them.  Make  them 
uncomfortable;  make  them  go  somewhere  else!  It  was 
not  that  they  were  better  or  worse  than  the  Beckwithi- 
ans;  it  was  enough  that  they  were  different.  Crucify 
them!  And  himself?  If  he  went  on  "knowing"  his 
cousins — what  was  in  store?  Gossip.  Malignant  gos- 
sip. Cold  shouldering,  cuts,  disdain.  .  .  .  Until  he  re- 
pented. Then,  upon  his  repentance,  a  general  revival 
of  heartiness  and  good  cheer.  The  prettiest  of  their 


THE  BREAK  173 

daughters  ...  a  comfortable  home,  the  social  whirl  of 
Beckwith,  position,  ease,  slow  decay  .  .  . 

But  meanwhile  he  was  to  be  punished  by  disapproval; 
he  was  to  be  kneaded  into  conformity  by  the  general 
pressure  of  the  herd.  The  William  Vechantors  were  to 
be  expelled  and  he  was  to  be  talked  or  neglected  into 
submission.  That  was  the  way  these  things  were  done 
in  Beckwith.  If  he  had  been  indifferent,  if  his  heart 
had  not  been  torn,  he  could  have  ignored  this  pressure, 
because  he  had  no  wish  to  be  swallowed  up  by  Beck- 
with. But  it  meant  his  being  cut  off  from  Veronica; 
and  the  funny  persecution  of  the  William  Vechantors 
would  go  on.  He  was  in  a  difficulty.  Beckwith  was 
stupid  and  contemptible ;  but  in  the  circumstances  it  was 
not  negligible.  It  had  the  power  to  say  to  the  new  gro- 
cer: We  do  not  like  your  name,  and  so  we  will  not 
deal  of  you.  Either  sell  your  business  at  once,  or  stay 
here  on  peril  of  our  displeasure.  To  Louis  it  had  the 
power  to  say:  You  belong  to  us,  your  family  holds  a 
prominent  position  in  the  town  as  the  result  of  our 
opinion  (upon  whatever  that  opinion  may  be  based), 
and  if  you  remain  one  of  us  we  will  recognise  your  right 
to  live  and  we  will  engulf  you.  But  if  you  attempt  to 
play  King  Canute,  and  defy  the  inexorable  oncoming 
of  our  common  strength,  then  shall  we  cast  you  derelict 
upon  the  beach  in  the  wreckage  of  your  cousin's  shop. 
And  the  horrible  part  to  Louis  was  that  Beckwith  did 
not  consciously  say  this.  It  felt  its  way,  blind-mouthed, 
and  its  leaders  were  wretched  little  people  drawn  on  by 
an  itch  for  knowing  irrelevant  things  and  managing  the 
affairs  of  others.  They  were  not  leaders;  they  were 
spies. 

At  last,  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Louis  went  to 
bed ;  but  it  was  not  to  sleep.  It  was  to  lie  awake  grind- 
ing ever  deeper  into  his  heart  the  painful  beliefs  that 


174;  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

he  had  reached  in  these  thoughts.  He  slowly  made  up 
his  mind  as  to  his  future  action.  His  father  forbade  him 
to  see  his  cousins :  well,  he  refused  that  command.  His 
pride  and  his  self-respect  were  both  involved.  He  would 
not  forsake  them,  unless  his  friendship  should  be  found 
to  be  injuring  the  business  directly.  In  that  case  he 
would  act  otherwise.  But  if  he  refused  to  obey  his 
father  their  relations  would  be  intolerable.  Very  well: 
he  would  leave  home.  He  could  very  easily  take  rooms 
in  town  and  continue  to  work  at  the  office.  He  could 
visit  his  mother,  and  could  visit  his  cousins.  He  could 
no  longer  bear  to  live  in  Beckwith.  He  had  come  to  feel 
horror  of  it — a  sheer  nervous  repulsion.  So  he  would 
leave  it.  Was  that  a  running  away?  No;  because  he 
would  be  seen  in  Beckwith  (at  least  every  time  he  passed 
Miss  Lampe's  house),  visiting  his  cousins.  He  would 
show  Beckwithians  that  he  could  be  staunch  to  his  true 
friends.  But  he  could  no  longer  stand  their  eternal  pres- 
ence. And  above  all — this  was  a  thing  that  Louis  only 
half  admitted  to  himself — his  pride  could  not  submit  to 
exclusion  from  the  Hughes's  house.  He  might  be  angry 
with  Veronica,  or  he  might  pity  her;  but  his  heart  beat 
faster  every  time  he  thought  that  Mrs.  Hughes  might 
close  the  door  of  her  house  to  him. 

Louis  was  so  far  from  estimating  the  facts  truly  that 
he  imagined  such  a  thing  possible.  It  was,  of  course, 
absurd;  but  he  was  deeply  moved  and  incapable  of  see- 
ing things  coolly.  He  was  so  moved  that  he  could  not 
sleep  at  all,  but  turned  from  side  to  side,  waiting  only 
for  the  daylight,  so  that  he  could  leave  Apple  House  and 
no  longer  regard  it  as  his  home. 


CHAPTER  XII:  VERONICA'S  BID 


THE  decision  taken,  it  was  perfectly  easy  for  Louis 
to  establish  himself  in  London,  upon  a  third  floor 
near  Finsbury  Square.  He  was  near  the  office  and 
within  reach  of  the  West  End.  Once  the  break  with 
Apple  House  had  been  made,  the  sense  of  new  inde- 
pendence came  to  his  aid  in  dispelling  the  sense  of  de- 
pression which  had  been  caused  by  such  a  change.  He 
worked  hard  all  day  at  the  office,  and  in  the  evenings  he 
read  or  went  to  the  theatre.  Nothing  could  have 
suited  him  better  at  this  time.  His  rooms  were  large 
and  barely  furnished,  and  as  he  took  most  of  his  meals 
out  he  did  not  quickly  discover  the  shortcomings  of  the 
service.  For  a  few  days  he  was  too  much  occupied  with 
his  arrangements  to  feel  lonely ;  and  with  plenty  of  coals 
and  plenty  of  tobacco  and  books  he  could  defy  the  win- 
ter. He  was  happy. 

And  then  began  the  work  of  his  memory.  Old  days 
rose  again  before  him,  joyous  days  of  peace  in  the  gar- 
den, of  cricket  and  football  at  school,  of  punting  on  the 
Cherwell,  and  tremendous  evenings  of  talking  in  his 
Oxford  rooms.  He  remembered  all  the  most  beloved 
spots  near  Beckwith,  all  the  happy  discoveries  of  the  dis- 
trict; the  tiled  roofs  of  the  oldest  houses,  the  cobbles  be- 
fore the  Lion,  the  glimpses  from  his  bedroom  window 
at  home.  They  assumed  a  new  aching  loveliness  that 
filled  him  at  times  with  melancholy.  For  those  things 

175 


176  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

he  had  nothing  but  love.  They  were  the  permanent 
things:  the  human  beings  passed,  but  the  beauties  of 
place  were  indestructible. 

Louis,  however,  was  a  human  being ;  and  he  could  not 
deny  that  his  more  exciting  memories  were  human  too. 
The  gentle  thoughts  of  old  happenings  were  sweet ;  but 
places  without  inhabitants  would  be  desolate  indeed. 
Perhaps  he  could  not  have  borne  to  recall  the  lines  of  the 
Surrey  Hills  if  at  every  turn  he  had  not  also  remembered 
human  associations,  the  sight  of  men,  the  sound  of  their 
voices.  And  if  he  longed  for  Beck  with  it  was  not  sim- 
ply for  its  own  beauty  or  for  that  of  its  surroundings. 
It  was  for  Veronica's  sake;  since  Veronica  was  more 
constantly  in  his  thoughts  than  ever.  He  could  not  for- 
get her.  His  anger  was  gone;  his  pity  had  followed  it; 
there  now  remained  only  the  residuum  of  all  the  feelings 
she  had  inspired — and  that  residuum  took  such  tantalis- 
ing form  that  his  incessant  craving  was  for  the  sight  of 
her.  It  ran  like  ichor  in  his  veins,  making  his  pulses 
leap.  In  solitude  he  was  very  much  more  in  love  with 
her  than  he  had  been  at  Beckwith.  She  was  transfig- 
ured in  his  musings,  so  that  she  became  almost  an  ideal 
creation  of  gentleness  and  love. 


11 

With  such  preoccupations  he  discovered  that  as  he 
read  the  words  faded  from  his  mind  and  gave  place  to 
memories;  that  the  voices  of  actors  were  like  the  bark- 
ing of  dogs.  At  the  office,  when  he  was  not  actively  en- 
gaged in  the  business  of  the  day,  Veronica  was  before 
him.  He  longed  to  possess  a  photograph  of  her,  so  that 
he  might  revivify  his  impressions  of  her  beauty.  Some- 
where behind  him  she  stood,  not  in  that  puzzling  sad- 


VERONICA'S  BID  ITT 

ness  which  had  driven  him  from  the  house,  but  with 
laughter  and  composure.  Most  of  his  doubts  were 
strained  away.  All  that  remained  was  pleasurable.  Al- 
most, he  regretted  leaving  Beckwith.  What  was  the  im- 
pulse that  had  so  abruptly  pitchforked  him  out  of  the 
town,  away  from  his  happiness?  It  was  already  inex- 
plicable to  him. 

Finally  Louis  made  an  effort  to  see  Daunton.  He 
was  introduced  to  the  girl  who  had  caused  all  the  com- 
motion in  the  Daunton  family.  She  was  quiet  and  as- 
sured, and  her  quietness  and  assurance  pleased  him, 
though  other  things  about  her  did  not.  For  one  thing 
she  dressed  without  taste ;  he  felt  she  was  practical  rather 
than  dainty,  as  a  wife  should  be.  She  had  no  allure. 
When  she  looked  at  Daunton  she  screwed  her  eyes  up, 
and  her  smile  was  not  pretty.  It  was  hungry.  But 
Louis  felt  that  in  her  capability  she  had  the  makings  of 
a  staunch  companion.  She  would  exploit  Daunton  for 
his  own  good.  He  was  less  her  lover  than  her  protege. 
When  he  had  left  them,  Louis  felt  that  he  had  overrated 
the  romance  of  this  affair,  and  yet  he  did  not  regret  it 
at  all.  Daunton's  weakness  was  too  apparent ;  he  would 
be  the  instrument  of  any  woman  who  should  marry  him. 
So  why  not  the  instrument  of  Ethel  ?  Since  that  was  his 
paramount  wish  at  the  moment. 

A  week  later,  Louis  assisted  at  their  cheerless  marriage 
at  a  register  office,  gave  them  a  lunch,  and  saw  them  off 
from  Victoria  for  a  honeymoon  that  was  to  last  no  longer 
than  the  week-end.  This  ceremony  was  the  culmination 
of  his  distress,  for  Daunton  was  helplessly  nervous  and 
Ethel  bright-eyed,  silent,  strangely  sharp  in  feature. 
They  did  not  appear  to  be  happy,  or  eager;  but  only  as 
if  they  were  being  driven  into  each  other's  arms  by  some 
common  misfortune  or  some  wretched  craving  that 
neither  could  withstand.  Louis  was  depressed  when  he 


178  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

left  them;  and  when  he  afterwards  spent  a  lonely  eve- 
ning in  his  rooms  he  was  all  the  more  depressed.  The 
state  in  which  he  found  himself  was  almost  insupport- 
able. Chilled  at  such  unpromising  nuptials,  lonely,  dis- 
couraged, he  found  his  sole  happiness — which,  instead 
of  being  restorative,  only  excited  him  and  rendered  him 
still  more  dissatisfied — in  gnawing  thoughts  of  Veron- 
ica. He  became  morose  and  emotional,  restlessly  mov- 
ing about  the  room,  sitting  down  again,  springing  up, 
talking  aloud.  Finally:  "I  can't  stand  this!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  really  can't  stand  it.  It's  driving  me  mad. 
Either  I  must  see  her,  or  write  to  her.  I  must  do  some- 
thing.' But  what  shall  I  do?" 


in 

And  then,  on  the  following  morning — a  Saturday — 
he  found  a  private  letter  upon  his  desk  at  the  office.  It 
was  from  Veronica.  Even  before  he  opened  it  he  knew 
that  the  letter  could  be  from  nobody  else.  His  fingers 
were  slightly  trembling  as  he  slit  the  envelope.  Within 
was  a  small  sheet  of  paper,  covered  with  writing  in  a 
small  ill-formed  hand,  and,  at  the  head,  that  embossed 
address  in  brown  lettering  after  the  similitude  of  bare 
twigs  which  the  Hughes  family  always,  in  defiance  of 
taste,  used  upon  their  note-paper. 

"Louis," — the  letter  abruptly  began, — "You  might  at 
least  have  said  you  were  going.  I  was  not  well  that 
evening,  and  you  were  beastly.  I  feel  I  never  want  to 
see  you  again.  I  don't  know  what  I  am  doing,  writing 
to  you;  but  I  can't  go  on  like  this.  One  day  you  will 
know  how  silly  you  have  been.  But  then  it  will  be  too 
late.  You  are  so  touchy,  nobody  can  say  a  word  to 


VERONICA'S  BID  179 

you.  You  don't  care  how  unhappy  you  make  anybody. 
Oh,  why  am  I  writing  like  this?  I  am  awfully  un- 
happy. You  might  at  least  write  and  say  you  are  sorry. 
Don't  write  here.  Mother  is  too  curious  about  letters. 
I  am  coming  up  to  London  on  Tuesday,  to  stay  with 
some  friends  at  Stroud  Green.  I  shall  be  at  London 
Bridge  station  at  three  o'clock.  If  I  don't  see  you  then 
I  shall  know  you  don't  want  to  see  me  any  more,  and 
that  you've  thrown  over  all  your  old  friends  because  of 
this  wretched  thing  that's  happened.  I  wish  they  had 
never  come  to  Beckwith.  Then  we  might  have  gone 
on  as  we  were,  happily.  Good-bye. 

"VERA." 

Louis  read  this  letter  with  breathless  attention,  smil- 
ing and  half-despising,  but  also  constrained  and  exhil- 
arated. It  fed  his  vanity;  it  made  him  feel  ashamed 
and  exultant.  But  at  least  it  never  entered  his  head  to 
fail  at  the  rendezvous.  He  began  to  plan  the  meeting, 
and  where  they  would  go.  Of  course  he  must  see  her, 
and  explain  something.  Where  could  they  go  for  tea, 
so  that  they  could  talk?  His  mind  was  quickly  made 
up.  He  would  meet  her  .  .  .  his  imagination  was  ac- 
tive, picturing  their  meeting.  .  .  .  They  would  go  to 
the  Sei strata  Cafe,  where,  at  that  time  in  the  afternoon, 
there  would  be  nobody  but  themselves  in  its  warm 
depths.  One  thing,  the  letter  was  a  clarification.  It  car- 
ried them  very  much  farther.  Veronica  showed  that 
she  was  not  indifferent  to  him.  If  he  could  convince 
her  of  the  Tightness  of  his  action  in  leaving  Beckwith! 
Could  he  do  that  ?  He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  clandes- 
tine interviews;  it  distressed  him  that  Veronica  should 
make  such  an  appointment.  Yet  it  did  not  distress  him 
very  much,  for  his  blood  was  hot  and  he  too  eagerly 
welcomed  the  meeting  for  any  stir  of  puritanism  greatly 


180  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

to  affect  him.  The  one  discomfort  was  the  thought  that 
Veronica  should  have  suggested  it.  Even  there  he 
found  an  excuse.  If  she  were  driven  to  appoint  a  secret 
meeting,  it  was  Beckwith  that  should  be  blamed.  If 
Beckwith  found  fault,  then  so  much  the  better.  Bed 
with  was  cursed  with  the  itch  for  fault-finding. 

How  long  the  day  seemed !  How  long  the  week-end  ! 
And,  on  Tuesday,  would  the  hours  never  run  their  slow 
course!  He  was  on  fire;  he  was  half-demented  with 
the  good  fortune  that  had  come  to  save  him  from  the 
agony  of  gradually  encroaching  despair.  Veronica! 
Veronica!  Over  and  over  again  he  read  her  precious 
letter. 

iv 

Louis  was  on  the  platform  at  London  Bridge  station 
long  before  the  train  was  due.  He  walked  up  and  down 
that  bleak  strip  of  stone  and  cement,  and  was  penetrated 
by  a  rushing  wind  that  foreboded  snow.  The  time  hung 
as  though  it  would  never  pass.  The  station  clock  and 
his  own  watch  were  affected  with  the  same  disease :  they 
hardly  moved  their  dilatory  hands.  Other  trains  came 
round  the  bends  and  rattled  their  way  out  of  the  sta- 
tion. Porters  telescoped  undistinguishable  names  in  a 
ridiculous  chant.  But  Veronica's  train  dallied.  It  was 
several  minutes  after  three  when  at  last  a  heavy  signal 
dropped,  and  at  that  moment  Louis's  impatience  became 
fever.  He  could  no  longer  continue  his  promenade. 
Instead,  he  took  up  his  position  near  the  stairs  down  to 
the  street,  and  stood  trembling  there.  And  then — at 
last! 

Veronica  jumped  from  a  carriage.  He  moved  for- 
ward, his  eyes  on  her  face.  She  seemed  paler  than 
usual;  her  manner,  perfectly  self-possessed,  was  cold 
Neither  spoke  in  the  first  minute,  and  Louis  took  he 


VERONICA'S  BID  181 

bag  with  a  coldness  as  great  as  her  own.  They  were 
not  constrained :  they  were  frozen.  Only  when  they 
were  upon  the  stairs  did  their  arms  touch,  and  Louis 
gently  took  her  elbow. 

"You've  had  a  rotten  journey,  I  expect,"  he  said; 
and  Veronica,  shivering  a  very  little,  pressed  his  hand 
to  her  side. 


When  they  were  out  of  the  station  Louis  touched  her 
no  longer. 

"I  thought  we'd  go  and  have  tea  at  the  Seistrata,"  he 
explained,  leading  her  across  London  Bridge.  "It's  quite 
near  the  other  side  of  the  bridge." 

She  made  no  answer ;  but  walked  on  by  his  side.  They 
came  out  upon  the  bridge,  and  saw  the  heavy  waters  of 
the  river  go  swirling  beneath  them,  noiseless  in  the  rum- 
ble of  the  traffic.  Beneath  their  feet  the  pavement  was 
thick  with  greasy  mud.  Above  the  city  hung  a  leaden 
sky,  blackened  with  smoke.  All  about  them  omnibuses 
and  cabs  and  drays  made  a  common  din,  above  which 
voices  could  not  be  heard.  It  was  like  being  in  the  midst 
of  thunder ;  but  no  piercing  arrows  of  lightning  broke  the 
grimness.  They  were  crushed  by  the  noise  and  the 
gloom,  two  moving  atoms  in  the  reverberate  city. 

Louis  could  not  tell  whether  Veronica  was  timid  or 
thoughtful;  if  she  dreaded  their  talk  or  awaited  it.  He 
was  lost  in  the  sense  of  her  nearness.  Once,  when  he 
looked  down,  she  was  looking  up,  and  their  interchange 
ended  in  a  smile  before  Veronica's  head  was  turned  aside. 
A  hope  rose  in  his  breast.  He  saw  no  coquetry,  no 
instinct  of  sullenness  to  bring  about  his  abasement  and 
a  protestation  of  his  love.  No  resolve  was  evident  to 
him  in  her  pallor.  The  words  of  Veronica's  letter  came 
into  Louis's  mind,  and  he  thought  of  them  as  the  words 


182  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

of  a  girl,  unformed,  unused  to  expressing  herself.  Even 
their  stubborn,  childish  crudity  increased  his  sense  of 
their  value  to  him.  He  was  sorry  for  Veronica,  but  full 
also  of  something  far  more  intricate  than  compassion, 
because  his  emotions  were  engaged.  His  eyes  were 
glowing,  and  his  heart  too.  If  they  had  been  truly  re- 
mote, as  they  only  seemed  to  be,  he  would  have  been 
as  humble  and  as  tractable  as  any  lover  before  his 
mistress's  frown.  He  would  have  been  all  to  her.  But 
they  were  not  alone;  and  Louis  was  too  simple  and  too 
honest  to  think  of  intrigue.  If  she  had  not  quite  all 
his  heart  (and  that  was  because  his  own  heart  was  as 
mysterious  to  him  as  the  heart  of  another),  at  least 
Veronica  had  all  his  thoughts.  Then  pride  came  to 
Louis.  He  was  very  proud  to  be  with  her,  thus  by  her 
side.  She  was  so  slim,  so  lovely,  in  spite  of  the  trouble 
that  had  pinched  and  whitened  her  face.  What  was 
he  going  to  say  to  her  ? 

They  were  at  the  Seistrata,  and  in  a  corner  of  its  silent 
depths.  Upon  the  walls  were  heavy  tapestries ;  upon  the 
floor  thick  soundless  carpets;  between  table  and  table 
jutting  screens  or  tall  plants  that  half -concealed  one  party 
from  another.  Everything  was  quiet,  discreet.  Inter- 
posed, as  it  were,  to  keep  them  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
was  the  impalpable  wall  of  each  silence.  The  waitress 
received  their  order  and  went  away;  and  Veronica  drew 
off  her  gloves  and  opened  the  neck  of  her  short  fur  coat. 
Louis  watched  those  slim  fingers,  marvelling  at  them. 
He  was  extraordinarily  conscious  of  what  it  would  feel 
like  to  touch  them.  Still  Veronica  did  not  speak  and 
would  not  meet  his  eyes.  She  seemed  unconscious  of 
his  gaze,  though  there  was  now  a  faint  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  and  a  subtle  air  of  relief  in  her  whole  demeanour. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  long  away?"  Louis  desperately 
asked. 


VERONICA'S  BID  183 

At  last  she  spoke. 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  come,"  she  said.  And  he  did  not 
believe  her.  Did  she  think  he  would  do  so? 

vi 

"I  think  you  must  have  felt  I  should,"  Louis  answered 
seriously.  "I  should  have  written  to  say  I'd  come  if  you 
hadn't  told  me  not  to  write.  I  ought  to  have  written 
before;  but  I  hadn't  .  .  .  hadn't  thought  of  it.  I  hadn't 
got  so  far." 

"No,"  Veronica  said.  Louis  was  vaguely  disappointed 
at  the  reply.  It  enabled  him  to  read  nothing  behind; 
and  he  was  in  dire  need  of  knowing  what  she  wished 
their  relation  to  be.  Well,  at  least  he  had  told  her  the 
truth.  He  hadn't  used  the  obvious  lie  that  business  had 
prevented  him  from  writing.  She  resumed  in  a  dry, 
wounded  tone:  "I  think  you  might  have  let  me  know 
where  you  were." 

"I  thought  you  were  too  sick  with  me,"  he  protested. 

Their  colloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  waitress,  who 
brought  their  tea.  Veronica  moved  forward  in  her  chair, 
her  hands  hovering. 

"You  might  have  been  dead  .  .  .  anything,"  she  went 
on.  That  was  so  false  that  he  made  no  reply;  but  only 
looked  at  her  rather  wonderingly.  "You  didn't  think 
that  we  might  be  worried." 

"No.     I  admit  I  didn't,"  Louis  agreed.     "Were  you?" 

Veronica  drew  a  quick  breath. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  artificially 
measured  voice,  deeper  than  usual.  "I  thought  perhaps 
you'd  come  round  to  apologise,  you  know  .  .  ." 

"What  for?"  asked  Louis.  There  was  a  lightning  ex- 
change of  glances.  As  he  took  his  tea-cup  from  her 
hand  the  tea  flittered  over  into  the  saucer.  Veronica's 
hand  was  trembling.  "What  did  you  want  me  to  apolo- 


184  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

gise  for?"  he  asked  again,  quite  astonished  at  the  hard 
defiance  that  had  crept  into  his  voice.  "I  didn't  mean 
to  hurt  you ;  but  I  don't  think  I  said  anything  to  apologise 
for,  did  I?" 

"Well,  then,  perhaps  to  give  me  a  chance  of  apologis- 
ing," Veronica  said,  in  the  same  curious  voice. 

"Of  saying  you'd  been  wrong?" 

"Oh  no!"  She  was  answering  hardness  with  hard- 
ness. 

"Well,  I  was  very  angry  with  you,"  Louis  said.  "I 
didn't  want  to  resume  our  argument,  and  yet,  you  see, 
I  couldn't  promise  to  give  my  cousins  up.  In  fact,  I've 
left  Beckwith  on  that  account." 

"I  see.     Run  away,"  commented  Veronica. 

"Not  altogether  that.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  you  could 
agree  with  me,  Veronica?"  Louis  had  suddenly,  trap- 
pingly,  abandoned  his  hardness.  He  was  appealing  to 
her. 

"If  you  were  right  there'd  be  no  need  for  me  to  agree," 
Veronica  prevaricated. 

"Won't  you  let  me  explain  how  right  I  am?" 

She  cast  a  quick  look  round,  to  see  that  they  were  not 
observed.  Then,  in  an  irritated  tone,  she  refused  his 
appeal. 

"It's  no  good  beginning  all  over  again,"  she  said 
sharply.  "Besides,  there's  nothing  to  argue  about." 

"I  want  you  to  agree  with  me  .  .  .  Vera!  I  respect 
your  judgment." 

Still  she  shook  her  head,  stubborn  to  repel  something 
she  could  not  imagine. 

"Yes,"  she  retorted.  "You  respect  it  when  I  agree 
with  you." 

"Oh!"  cried  Louis,  thinking.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
added:  "I  wonder  if  you've  ever  really  agreed  with  me 
about  anything  on  earth?" 


VERONICA'S  BID  185 


vn 


Nothing  could  have  hurt  Veronica  more  than  that 
doubt.  Louis  saw  her  flinch.  She  put  down  her  cup, 
looking  away  from  him,  as  if  she  tried  to  retain  com- 
posure. The  corners  of  her  mouth  pathetically  drooped. 
When  she  spoke  her  voice  was  unsteady.  Tears  were  in 
her  eyes. 

"Of  course  I  have,"  she  said  quickly.  "Don't  be  so 
horrible!  It's  you  who've  changed." 

"Well,  then,  won't  you  change,  too?" 

"Oh  no !"     It  sounded  final.     "No !" 

"I've  set  my  heart  on  it.  I  want  you  to  be  big  enough 
to  r.tand  by  yourself." 

Veronica's  cheeks  slowly  reddened.  She  appeared  not 
to  be  able  to  keep  still. 

"It  isn't  that,"  she  said,  in  a  melancholy  way.  "You 
only  want  me  to  agree  with  you.  That's  all  you  want. 
You  don't  care  how  much  I  suffer,  so  long  as  I  agree 
with  you." 

They  both  sighed ;  and  Louis's  heart  felt  leaden  within 
him. 

"I  don't  really  know  what  I  want,"  he  admitted,  with 
a  great  effort  after  honesty.  He  only  knew  that  he 
wanted  her  to  be  kind.  Without  realising  what  he  was 
saying,  he  added  eagerly:  "But  I'm  so  tired  of  feeling 
that  I'm  hurting  you  and  not  doing  them  any  good.  Pm 
just  dissatisfied  with  myself — with  everything."  In  that 
moment,  at  the  slightest  sign  of  self -forgetful  love  from 
Veronica,  he  might  have  abandoned  everything  for  her. 
He  did  not  know  how  far  that  unpremeditated  crystalli- 
sation of  his  secret  chagrin  had  carried  him  beyond  ordi- 
nary self-control.  It  was  a  crucial  instant,  but  the  in- 
stant passed,  unheeded  by  either.  As  she  did  not  reply, 


186  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

but,  obeying  another  instinct,  continued  to  look  away, 
determined  to  conquer  that  in  him  which  was  unconquer- 
able, Louis  went  on  in  another  tone.  "How  is  Adela? 
I  hope  she's  well.  And  how's  Judith?  Judith  still 
studying  diagrams?" 

With  a  quick  jerk  Veronica  looked  sharply  back  into 
Louis's  face.  Her  face  altered.  It  became  exasperated, 
and  no  longer  as  though  she  were  intently  listening.  It 
was  because  of  the  change  in  his  tone,  which  had  been 
due  to  a  striving  after  lightness  and,  for  Louis,  a  neces- 
sary relief.  It  almost  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  in 
some  way  been  viciously  enjoying  their  wrangle — at  least, 
that  she  would  have  preferred  to  continue  wrangling 
rather  than  accept  the  opportunity  of  improving  a  topic 
less  personal.  For  a  moment  Veronica  did  not  speak. 
Clearly,  she  was  forcing  herself  to  something.  Then : 

"Oh,  they're  all  right,"  she  listlessly  answered.  "Noth- 
ing ever  changes  in  Beckwith."  Rather  indignantly, 
catching  her  breath,  she  went  on :  "Judy  doesn't  study 
diagrams.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean!  She  just 
reads  a  lot.  There's  no  harm  in  that,  I  suppose?"  At 
his  smile,  which  was  at  her  sudden  warmth,  and  held  no 
baser  significance,  she  lowered  her  lids.  Agitatedly,  she 
began:  "I  don't  know  what  you're  thinking  about  us. 
I'm  sure  it's  not  nice — as  though  we  weren't  nice 
girls.  .  .  .  You  seem  to  think  we're  funny — as  if  you 
looked  down  on  us  in  a  lordly  way.  .  .  ."  As  she  con- 
cluded, her  voice  was  trembling  again  with  feeling. 

"I  ?"  asked  Louis,  astounded.  "Why,  Vera !  This  is 
worse  than  ever !" 

"You  used  to  like  us." 

"I  do  still." 

"No.  You  don't.  I  can  see  you  don't.  You  despise 
us.  She's  made  you  think  differently." 

"She?"     He  felt  absolutely  at  the  end  of  his  knowl- 


VERONICA'S  BID  187 

edge  of  her.  This  savage,  half -cry  ing,  defiant  Veronica 
was  somebody  wholly  foreign  to  his  conception  of  her 
nature.  "She?  Who's 'she'?" 

"That  girl !" 

"Why  .  .  .  Dorothy?  How  extraordinary  this  is!. 
D'you  see  how  .  .  .  She?  You  do  mean  Dorothy? 
Why,  Vera;  she's  a  young  girl — younger  than  you  are. 
How  could  she  change  me?  It's  absurd!" 

"She  has !  You're  quite  changed.  Quite."  Veronica 
spoke  almost  sullenly.  Then,  in  a  fierce,  strangled  voice,, 
she  cried :  "D'you  think  I  can't  tell !" 

viii 

Both  were  trembling  vehemently.  Louis  was  too  as- 
tounded to  be  master  of  himself;  Veronica  too  madly 
angry  with  him  to  be  more  than  half -a  ware  of  her  own 
folly.  And  yet  the  sense  of  that  folly  had  begun  to 
work  in  her  and  to  heighten  her  unhappiness.  They 
could  not  speak  to  each  other;  but,  trembling,  looked 
with  bent  heads  at  the  table-cloth,  at  the  tea-things,  at 
their  own  clothing.  Veronica  seemed  presently  as 
though  she  were  listening.  A  knell  might  have  rung  in 
her  ears  when  Louis,  violently  constraining  himself,  re- 
sumed in  a  dead  voice  : 

"What  time  have  you  to  be  at  your  friends'  house? 
You  go  from  Moorgate  Street,  I  suppose?" 

"Broad  Street,"  Veronica  said  hurriedly.  "I'd  better 
go  now." 

There  seemed  nothing  for  either  to  say.  Both  were 
filled  with  a  numbing  pain  that  kept  them,  from  sheer 
hopelessness  of  relief,  from  going  back  to  their  conver- 
sation. Veronica  began  to  fasten  her  jacket,  and  Louis 
to  look  at  his  watch.  Long  afterwards,  when  they  were 
half-way  to  Broad  Street  in  a  taxi-cab,  Veronica  began 


188  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

to  wipe  her  eyes ;  but  Louis  was  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  did  not  see  her.  Only  when  she  was  in  the 
train,  standing  at  the  window  as  the  engine  sent  its  first 
two  or  three  slow  puffs  of  smoke  thundering  into  the 
air,  Veronica  said  in  a  stifled  voice : 

"I  needn't  have  gone  yet,  really.  Louis!" 
She  made  a  motion  to  open  the  carriage  door.  It  was 
too  late.  And  Louis,  who  had  been  turning  away,  hardly 
knew  that  she  had  spoken.  So  while  Veronica  cried  in 
the  railway  carriage  Louis  walked  back  to  his  rooms, 
coldly  stupefied  with  a  sense  of  failure  and  bitter  disap- 
pointment 


CHAPTER  XIII:  NADIR 


AFTERWARDS,  Louis  found  himself  more  restless 
than  he  had  ever  been.  The  meeting  had  been  a 
failure;  but  it  had  not  solved  his  difficulties.  Instead, 
it  had  aggravated  them.  When  he  thought  of  the  part 
he  had  himself  played  he  was  aghast.  Was  this,  then, 
firmness  that  he  had  shown?  If  Veronica  had  been  un- 
recognisable, so,  surely,  had  he!  Unrelenting,  unyield- 
ing, he  had  forced  her  to  an  admission  of  jealousy;  but, 
so  far  from  exulting  in  that,  he  had  repelled  her,  because 
she  had  shown  no  sign  of  appreciating  his  position.  Ap- 
parently, he  thought,  he  loved  his  own  view  of  life 
better  than  he  loved  Veronica !  He  had  not  realised  that 
before.  Did  he  love  her  at  all? 

The  problem  tormented  him  to  the  point  of  desperate 
self-ridicule.  She  had  been  right:  he  only  wanted  her 
to  agree  with  him.  And  if  Veronica  was  stubborn,  so, 
Louis  now  understood,  was  he.  The  sense  of  it  made 
him  sigh.  Was  it  simply  obstinacy  that  held  them  both 
back  from  a  candid  explanation?  How  difficult  things 
were!  Why  couldn't  they  agree?  Why  could  not 
Veronica  see  that  he  was  right?  Alternatively,  why 
could  he  not  sink  his  loyalty  to  William  and  be  happy 
in  a  common  set  of  standards  with  Veronica?  Was  the 
cause  truly,  as  Veronica  had  proclaimed,  that  he  cared 
more  for  Dorothy,  after  all,  than  for  Veronica?  He 
was  puzzled  and  impatient  and  unhappy. 

189 


190  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

But  he  had  been  firm !  Oh,  he  had  been  firm !  He 
had  been  like  a  man,  and  he  had  not  known  that  he  could 
be  firm  against  Veronica.  She  could  not  move  him! 
She  must  fear  him !  The  thought  was  palatable.  Soon- 
er or  later,  she  would  give  in.  She  was  bound  to  give 
in,  for  her  opposition  was  founded  on  jealousy.  His 
firmness,  on  the  other  hand,  based  itself  upon  conviction. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  this  satisfactory  reflection,  Louis 
felt  his  heart  sinking.  What  if  he  lost  Veronica? 

ii 

Yes,  what  if  he  lost  Veronica?  If  Louis  could  have 
seen  himself  he  would  have  been  surprised  to  notice  how 
pale  and  rigid  were  his  lips,  how  deeply  glowing  his  eyes. 
When  he  shrugged  away  that  question  it  was  because  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind.  Some  secret  tide  of  indif- 
ference had  set  in,  chilling  him.  Like  an  unhappy  child 
he  was  fighting  to  preserve  an  opinion  of  Veronica  that 
his  perceptions  were  every  minute  corroding.  The  old 
doubts  of  her  were  lurking  ever-ready  to  destroy  the  fair 
vision.  It  was  not  that  his  sense  of  power  over  her 
had  injured  his  loyalty,  as  it  might  have  done  if  Louis 
had  been  a  male  coquette.  He  was  not  withdrawing 
triumphantly  from  a  now  pursuing  victim.  He  was 
angry  and  distressed,  surprised,  repetant,  but  resolved. 
Veronica,  instead  of  leaving  all  wilfully  to  love  and 
time,  was  demanding  his  submission  as  the  price  of  her 
love.  It  was  intolerable.  It  would  have  been  intoler- 
able if  he  had  been  very  much  more  in  love  than  he  was; 
but  the  position  was  less  favourable  to  her  even  than  that. 
In  the  very  moment  when  she  should  have  been  mysteri- 
ous in  his  eyes  Veronica  had  lost  dignity.  She  had 
been  driven  by  that  jealousy  which  is  the  base  metal  of 
love  into  an  attempted  tyranny.  The  love  upon  which 


NADIR  191 

she  had  relied  was  not  strong  enough.  Louis  that  night 
slept  not  at  all:  he  was  still  anxious,  dispirited;  but  his 
heart  was  not  softened.  In  the  morning,  almost  with- 
out plan,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  much-read  note 
of  assignation,  and  tore  it  ruthlessly  into  shreds.  He 
sighed  as  he  did  so;  but  when  the  last  shreds  were  trem- 
bling in  the  fire,  black,  with  little  running  sparks  of  dying 
red  still  playing  in  the  dead  paper,  Louis  shuddered 
slightly.  It  was  a  shudder  in  which  hopelessness  was 
mingled  with  relief.  All  was  not  yet  over;  the  next 
days,  the  next  weeks,  might  revive  the  emotion  he  had 
felt;  but  for  the  present  Veronica  had  lost.  Aversion, 
ever  so  slight,  follows  any  woman's  attempt  to  force  the 
pace  in  love;  and  Louis,  morose  and  disappointed,  did 
not  yet  realise  that  an  adverse  current  had  set  in.  It 
was  a  current  which  was  carrying  him,  perhaps,  a  little 
deeper  into  the  understanding  of  his  own  life;  but  it  was 
also  rendering  nnnavigable  one  of  the  few  channels  still 
open  to  him  for  any  means  of  reconciliation  with  Beck- 
with. 

iii 

And  then  a  very  curious  thing  happened.  Mr.  Ve- 
chantor  began  to  come  every  day  to  the  office.  He  had 
thrown  aside  his  sloth,  and  had  resumed  work.  He  now 
dealt  personally  with  all  those  things  which  recently  had 
been  in  Louis's  hands.  In  a  week  Louis,  who  saw  his 
father  only  in  the  most  casual  way,  had  become  a  cipher 
in  the  firm.  No  longer  were  papers  upon  his  desk  each 
morning  for  attention.  They  were  all  taken  to  Mr, 
Vechantor's  room.  The  clerks  raised  eyebrows:  when 
Mr.  Vechantor  made  mistakes,  which  he  did  through 
lack  of  acquaintance  with  current  business,  the  clerks 
came  to  Louis  for  their  rectification.  His  father  neither 


x92  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

came  to  him  nor  sent  for  him.  From  a  position  of 
power,  Louis  fell  in  a  single  week  to  a  position  of 
nothingness.  Long  hours  of  idle  busy-ness  upon  unim- 
portant details  kept  him  at  his  desk ;  but  he  did  nothing 
that  a  minor  clerk  might  not  have  done.  Thoughts  of 
expostulation  occurred  to  him ;  he  planned  speeches  and 
letters  to  his  father;  but  the  impossibility  of  making  any 
impression  upon  that  stubborn  mind  was  so  evident  that 
he  abandoned  all  these  notions  and  fell  back  upon  reserve. 

At  this  time  Louis's  position  was  truly  pitiable.  He 
was  paralysed  by  his  disappointed  love  for  Veronica, 
and  his  father's  action,  which  otherwise  he  might  have 
countered  by  a  protest  as  arbitrary,  robbed  him  of  that 
occupation  which  might  have  distracted  his  mind.  Be- 
neath the  quiet  endurance  which  he  imposed  upon  him- 
self, Louis  suffered  the  anguish  of  a  sensitive  nature. 
At  times  he  was  in  such  mental  agony  that  he  became 
really  ill — listless,  overstrained,  passionately  nervous. 
That  made  him  incapable  of  action;  and  the  sense  of  his 
impotence  increased  his  self-hatred.  He  saw  himself  as 
useless — the  worst  conception  of  a  sick  mind.  Not  only 
was  he  useless,  but  he  was  even  the  cause  of  sorrow  to 
others.  Stupid,  helpless,  useless  .  .  .  that  was  the  bur- 
den of  Louis's  thoughts. 

Slowly  he  began  to  hate  his  father,  to  distort  his  char- 
acter and  his  past  acts.  But  in  the  midst  of  this  distor- 
tion came  a  return  gust  of  self -contempt,  and  Louis  re- 
sumed his  helpless  baffled  feeling  of  passive  hatred.  He 
no  longer  sought  to  justify  it  by  distortions.  He  ran 
the  lengths  of  all  nervous  reactions  to  his  disappointment. 
He  could  hardly  have  been  more  miserable,  because  he 
was  inactive — inert ;  and  the  feeling  of  defeat  was  heavy 
upon  him.  Never,  in  all  the  moods  of  discouragement 
which  are  the  penalties  paid  by  every  nature  capable  of 
feeling  acutely,  had  Louis  reached  such  depths  of  de- 


NADIR  193 

spondency  as  he  now  touched.  He  had  gone  right  down 
into  the  trough.  Only  some  startling  event  could  save 
him  from  a  long  period  of  despair.  He  seemed  alto- 
gether without  objective.  The  first  thrill  of  his  loyalty 
to  Daunton  and  to  his  cousins  had  subsided.  It  was  an 
additional  cause  for  depression,  for  he  was  unhappy 
about  Daunton's  uncoloured  marriage,  and  his  support  of 
the  William  Vechantors,  so  far  from  helping  them,  had 
only  increased  their  difficulties  and  the  hostility  with 
which  they  had  been  assailed. 

i:  iv  '  ;M 

f 

It  was  at  this  point  that  he  received  a  visit  one  evening 
from  Daunton.  He  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  his  room, 
trying  to  read  grave  words  that  made  no  impression  at 
all  upon  his  mind,  when  the  door  was  suddenly  opened 
and  Daunton  made  his  appearance.  Not  a  jaunty  or 
even  a  contented  Daunton ;  but  a  haggard  figure  in  whose 
every  movement  one  could  read  discontent  and  a  sort  of 
misery  hard  for  another  man  to  bear.  Even  in  the  first 
glimpse  Louis  was  moved  to  a  feeling  of  contempt. 
Daunton  was  not  the  excited  young  lover,  or  the  deter- 
mined rebel:  he  was  distraught  indeed,  but  in  a  weak 
and  undecided  way  that  made  sympathy  from  the  outset 
almost  impossible.  In  Louis's  own  mood  sympathy,  so 
much  needed  by  both,  was  difficult  to  evoke.  He  was 
himself  too  miserable  to  make  any  effort  at  identification 
with  the  misery  of  another  an  easy  thing.  He  started 
up,  drawing  forward  a  second  chair ;  and  then  he  offered 
his  tobacco  pouch  and  a  box  of  cigarettes  with  a  gesture 
as  near  as  to  that  of  bored  acceptance  as  his  instinctive 
hospitality  could  allow.  He  did  not  want  Daunton  before 
him  in  any  light  but  that  of  a  successful  rebel.  Failure 
here  was  only  another  source  of  exasperation.  It  told 


194  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

him  that  he  had  meddled  with  Daunton's  life  also  for 
evil.  There  was  no  rest  at  all.  Everything  had  gone 
wrong.  Oh,  if  he  could  but  let  things  slide,  as  happy 
people  did! 

Louis  could  not  let  things  slide.  His  mind  was  too 
alert  to  fall  into  the  lethargic  inattention  that  apes  con- 
templativeness.  That  was  why  he  was  now  so  unhappy. 
He  could  not  let  Veronica  go  without  a  thought.  He 
was  not  coldly  selfish,  as  is  the  successful  amorist  or  the 
successful  man  of  business.  When  he  looked  at  Daunton 
it  was  with  a  sense  of  responsibility  for  evil  that  nothing 
could  have  conquered.  And  that  made  him  ashamed  and 
irritable  and  contemptuous.  He  saw  in  a  flash  that 
Daunton,  so  far  from  being  courageous,  as  he  had  be" 
lieved,  had  slipped  into  a  relation  with  Ethel,  and  a  con- 
fession to  himself,  and  an  act  of  apparent  independence, 
through  sheer  lack  of  will  to  battle  with  his  first  impulse. 
Louis  despised  such  weakness.  He  despised  it  all  the 
more  because  he  knew  himself  to  be  weak.  However  he 
might  love  freedom  he  knew  he  was  not  himself  free. 
Like  Daunton,  he  was  governed  entirely  by  his  impulses; 
and  the  strongest,  without  reference  to  judgment,  was 
the  impulse  that  triumphed.  So  he  glowered  at 
Daunton,  who  sat  with  every  muscle  relaxed,  in  the  arm- 
chair corresponding  to  his  own.  The  sight  made  Louis 
instinctively  stiffen. 

Daunton  filled  his  pipe,  slowly  puffing  and  stopping 
the  rising  tobacco  that  curled  out  from  the  pipe's  bowl. 
In  silence  the  two  sat  for  several  minutes  looking  at  the 
fire.  That  silence  also  was  irksome  to  Louis.  Every- 
thing, in  his  present  mood,  would  have  been  irksome  to 
him.  When  they  had  been  sitting  thus  for  a  little  while 
he  broke  out  into  a  protesting  speech. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  he  irritably  asked. 
"Are  you  in  town  for  the  evening  ?" 


NADIR  195 

Datmton  roused  himself,  his  long  white  face  gloomily 
set. 

"Ethel's  gone  to  see  some  friends.  ...  I  tell  you, 
Vechantor,  I  can't  stand  this  much  longer." 

"Stand  what?"  demanded  Louis  sharply.  The  sudden 
burst  of  Daunton's  egoism,  as  though  he  had  planned  the 
opening,  jarred  him  to  an  unbearable  degree.  "Aren't 
you  happy?" 

"Happy !"  laughed  Daunton  in  a  lugubrious  voice.  "I 
know  what  you  think  of  me.  I  can  see  it.  But  you 
don't  understand.  You're  not  a  weak  chap,  like 
me.  .  .  ." 

"Aren't  I !"  Louis  cried,  turning  his  shoulder,  his  lids 
dropping.  "It's  funny  what  a  difference  there  is  be- 
tween things  and  appearances."  His  tone  was  dejected, 
rather  than  angry;  but  his  anger  was  appeased. 

Daunton  stared  at  him.  To  Louis  the  silence  was 
almost  unbearable.  He  could  have  shouted  savagely, 
"For  God's  sake  say  something!  Anything!" — but  pride 
checked  him.  Daunton  seemed  to  have  no  pride.  He 
had  come  to  tell  his  woe.  Louis  could  not  tell  of  his 
grief.  It  was  too  bitter.  With  Daunton  the  telling 
lightened  the  load,  and  he  would  complain,  perhaps,  all 
his  life,  in  a  voluptuous  abandonment. 

"Three  weeks  now  since  I  left  home,"  he  resumed; 
"and  there  hasn't  been  a  word  from  them.  I  might  as 
well  not  exist.  There's  cruelty  there.  .  .  .  Don't  you 
think  there  is?"  He  did  not  wait.  "Yes ;  there's  cruelty 
there.  I'm  shut  out." 

"But  you  did  it  yourself,  man!"  said  Louis  suddenly. 
"You  knew  what  it  meant.  You  had  your  choice.  You 
chose  Ethel.  Isn't  she  worth  it?" 

"Ethel!  She's  a  brick.  You  know,  Vechantor,  she 
understands  me.  She  does!  And  I'm  making  her  mis- 
erable." Daunton  rose  to  his  feet  and  took  a  couple  of 


196  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

steps  from  the  fire  so  that  he  could  stand  half-sitting 
against  a  table.  "Vechantor,  old  chap,  do  for  God's 
sake  sympathise  a  bit.  I  ought  to  be  as  happy  as  any- 
thing. She's  a  real  girl.  Nothing  like  anybody  you 
see  in  Beckwith.  Nothing  like  those  damned  Hughes 
girls.  .  .  .  But  there's  this  awful  craving  for  home — I 
can't  forget  it.  I  feel  I've  done  wrong." 

"You  haven't!"  cried  Louis.  "That  is,  if  you're  fond 
of  Ethel." 

"Of  course  I'm  fond  of  her.  But  we're  both  wretched 
because  no  letter  comes.  She  sees  me  waiting  for  it; 
and  she  tries  to  cheer  me  up.  Coaxes  me;  pretends  to 
be  gay.  .  .  .  It's  no  good!  I  found  her  crying  last 
night.  She  said  she  felt  queer;  but  I  knew  it  was  really 
because  I'd  been  an  impatient  pig.  I  don't  seem  able 
to  get  my  spirits  going.  I'm  always  wanting  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  for  ...  Daunton,  my  dear  chap,  I  can't  stand 
it!  You  decided  to  marry  Ethel.  You  had  to  choose, 
and  you  chose.  But  you  want  both  things.  .  .  ." 

Daunton  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  At  last  he 
said: 

"I  know  it's  too  bad  to  worry  you  with  it.  But  do  you 
know  you're  the  only  friend  I've  got?  Perhaps  I'm  not 
your  friend.  But  you've  been  mine.  Oh,  you  know  it ! 
I'm  so  devilish  lonely.  I  can't  go  to  anybody  because 
when  they  look  down  their  noses  at  me  I  get  flustered 
and  lose  my  temper.  You  don't  do  that.  I  can  see  you 
despise  me;  but  you  don't  do  it  as  they  do.  You're 
aggravated  with  me  because  you  think  I'm  grizzling. 
They  only  think  I'm  funny.  That's  the  difference. 
That's  why  I  came  up  here  to-night.  I  knew  you'd  be 
ratty ;  but  anything's  better  than  indifference.  Anything. 
It's  just  what  I  can't  bear — to  think  of  them  at  home 
cutting  me  right  out  of  their  lives,  as  if  I  was  infec- 
tious ...  as  if  I  was  a  leper.  And  of  course  they 


NADIR  197 

know  it.  It's  the  same  old  game.  It's  the  way  they've 
always  done  .  .  .  always.  ...  I  could  give  you  instance 
after  instance,  in  my  own  life.  .  .  .Vechantor,  did  you 
ever  hear  about  me  and  Vera  Hughes  .  .  ." 

Louis  felt  the  blood  flush  his  cheeks.  When  he  was 
able  to  speak  his  voice  was  indistinct.  He  hoped  it  did 
not  give  him  away. 

"Something,"  he  said. 

"Well,  there's  a  thing  .  .  ."  Daunton  stared  at  the 
fire.  "It  was  all  her  doing  ...  I  mean,  she  worked  on 
me  and  said  .  .  .  Oh,  she's  a  little  cat.  .  .  .  D'you 
know,  Vechantor  .  .  .  it's  a  beast  of  a  thing  to  say; 
but  I  could  have  married  any  of  those  three  girls.  When 
I  was  a  kid  I  used  to  go  with  Adela.  .  .  .  Then,  when 
I  was  eighteen  or  nineteen  there  was  the  fuss  with  Vera. 
My  word,  she  was  hot  stuff!  There's  something  in 
them  ...  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  ...  Now,  of  course, 
it's  Judith.  Mater  had  fixed  it  all  up.  If  it  wasn't  the 
one  it  was  to  be  the  other.  I  can't  stand  Judith — not 
at  any  price.  And  I  know  the  others  too  well.  And 
the  funny  thing  is  that  it's  Judith  who's  being  pushed 
off  now.  You  couldn't  see  it,  I  expect;  but  to  anybody 
who  knows  the  game  it's  screamingly  comic.  Look  at 
Dumaresque,  now.  He  was  mad  about  Veronica.  .  .  . 
But  that  didn't  suit  Mrs.  Hughes.  She'd  got  other  plans 
for  Vera.  Other  plans,  d'you  see.  But  Dumaresque 
was  to  be  hooked  elsewhere.  It  wasn't  Adela  this  time. 
I  suppose  she  wouldn't.  They  were  trying  to  put  him 
on  to  Judy.  To  transfer  him  from  Vera  to  Judy.  I 
could  see  it  all.  I  always  did  see  it  all ;  but  I  never  had 
the  courage  to  say  so.  ...  It's  that  that  makes  mater 
wild.  She  was  in  exactly  the  same  taking  about  Vera, 
and  I  was  sent  to  Coventry  for  a  month.  It  was  mad, 
I  admit;  and  I  know  I'm  a  beast  to  talk  about  it.  But 
there  it  is.  She  was  always  getting  squeezed  up  in  cor- 


198  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

ners  with  me,  and  writing  me  notes,  and  meeting  me  in 
the  lanes.  And  I  was  drunk  with  a  sort  of  feeling  that 
I  was  being  flattered.  I  suppose  I  was  in  love  with  her. 
I  don't  know  what  she  was  with  me.  .  .  .  Somehow 
that's  what  happens  in  Beckwith.  They  swaddle  you 
all  up,  and  you're  bound  to  break  out  on  the  quiet;  and 
then  ...  no,  they  don't  beat  you,  or  shut  you  up: 
they're  scandalised,  and  they  show  you  you're  not  decent. 
They  cast  you  out.  And  the  devil  of  it  is,  it's  so  effec- 
tive. It's  not  effective  to  keep  you  from  going  wrong; 
but  it's  effective  for  making  you  as  miserable  as  hell 
afterwards.  It's  the  punishment ,  they're  keen  on.  It 
satisfies  their  cruelty.  They're  malignant  with  cruelty, 
and  instead  of  making  you  good  they  drive  you  away, 
and  break  your  nerve  for  life.  Mater  doesn't  care  what 
happens  to  me,  so  long  as  I'm  punished.  They  didn't 
care — not  one  of  them — what  happened  to  Vera ;  so  long 
as  she  was  punished.  What's  the  result?  She  hates  me. 
She's  got  the  kind  of  nature  that  makes  a  girl  get  hold  of 
a  weak  chap  like  me  and  despise  him.  She  hasn't  got 
the  nerve  herself  to  stand  up  to  a  real  man :  if  she  had, 
she'd  be  some  good.  If  she  got  hold  of  a  man  who'd 
cut  all  meetings  in  the  dark,  all  the  hysterical  little 
smothered  kisses  and  cowardly  secrets,  she'd  very  likely 
fall  in  love  with  him  and  be  a  woman.  Ach !  They're 
all  alike.  All  these  Hughes  girls.  They've  been  forced 
into  it  by  that  beast  of  a  mother.  She's  like  my  mother. 
They're  a  pair.  Both  as  coarse  and  as  cruel.  .  .  .  And 
she's  treating  me  as  if  I  was  a  leper  .  .  ." 

"For  God's  sake  .  .  .  For  God's  sake!"  groaned 
Louis,  stupefied  with  this  incoherent  raving,  which  was 
all  the  time  wounding  and  bruising.  "What  on  earth 
d'you  think's  the  good  of  pouring  all  this  out  at  me? 
It  only  makes  me  sick,  and  doesn't  help  you." 

"It  does  help  me.     Look  here,  Vechantor  .  .  .  No, 


NADIR  199 

old  man :  listen !  I  wrote  to  mother,  telling  her  what  I'd 
done;  saying  what  a  good  wife  Ethel  was,  and  all  that. 
I  asked  her  to  write  and  say  she  forgave  me — only  that ! 
Not  a  word  has  come.  Then,  a  week  ago,  I  wrote  again 
— just  a  note — saying  how  sorry  I  was  not  to  have  heard 
anything.  I'm  afraid  it  was  a  bit  of  a  wail.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  can't  help  it!  But  it  wasn't  abject !" 

Louis  groaned  to  himself.  What  was  the  good  of 
talking  to  this  egomaniac?  He  turned  round  in  his 
chair,  so  that  he  could  see  Daunton,  forcing  himself  to 
speak. 

"If  you  grizzle,  it's  not  fair  to  Ethel,"  he  said. 
"You've  no  right  to  grizzle.  And  they're  not  worth  it." 
He  felt  unbearable  excitement  rising  within  his  breast. 
"I  can't  think  what's  the  matter  with  you!"  he  cried. 
"You  get  married  as  if  you  were  being  sentenced.  D'you 
think  you  don't  owe  something  to  your  wife?  Why, 
it's  intolerable  that  you  should  be  making  her  wretched 
because  of  these  beastly  people.  Intolerable!  She's 
given  up  everything  for  you :  why  not  you  for  her  ?  Why 
not?  You  make  me  tired!  You  won't  kick  back! 
Good  God!  You  ought  to  be  kicking  me,  and  you're 
just  mulishly  listening.  You  ought  to  be  scorning  your 
home  people — making  a  new  home  for  yourself  ..." 
He  stopped,  breathless. 

"I  know,"  eagerly  answered  Daunton.  "I  know  I 
ought — about  making  a  new  life.  You're  absolutely 
right,  Vechantor.  But  then,  you're  different !  You  can 
do  these  things.  You  can  live  to  yourself.  I  can't. 
I've  got  no  resources." 

"You've  got  Ethel!"  flashed  Louis.  "Think  of  her, 
man!" 

Daunton  met  his  glance  with  lifeless,  hopeless  eyes. 
He  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"I've  always  been  weak-kneed,"  he  said  slowly,  with  a 


200  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

hovering  smile  of  distress.     "I  was  brought  up  weak- 
kneed.     Because  it  made  me  easier  to  manage." 

Suddenly  he  dropped  his  pipe  and  put  both  hands  up 
to  his  face,  pressing  them  against  his  cheeks,  his  eyes 
covered. 


Louis  moved  uneasily  under  this  silent  confession  of 
shame.  He  could  not  look  at  Daunton.  For  Daunton 
was  showing  the  despair  that  Louis  could  only  feel. 
More  volatile  than  Louis  he  was  able  to  give  expression 
to  his  sorrow;  while  Louis,  in  greater  agony  because 
misery,  having  no  such  outlet,  went  deeper  and  deeper 
into  his  soul,  was  torn  between  envy  and  contempt. 

At  last  Daunton's  hands  dropped.  Mechanically, 
ashamed  of  himself,  he  relighted  his  pipe  and  began  once 
more  to  smoke.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  a  more 
ordinary  voice. 

"I'm  not  so  badly  off  as  she  is,"  he  said.  "I'm  too 
selfish.  She's  not.  I  see  her  watching  me,  not  thinking 
about  herself  at  all.  I  tell  you,  Vechantor:  you  ought 
to  get  married  yourself.  You've  no  idea  what  it  means." 

Louis  winced.  When  that  was  all  dead.  When 
Daunton  himself  had  added  dreadful  words  to  Louis's 
dismay.  With  an  ironic,  insincere  attempt  to  bluster, 
insincere  because  his  heart  was  closed  against  Daunton 
and  his  despair  was  corroding  his  sympathies,  he  re- 
torted : 

"You're  the  ideal  picture  of  married  happiness." 

"I'm  ashamed  of  myself." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  be,"  Louis  admitted.  "For 
hankering  after  old  things." 

Daunton  left  the  table  and  returned  to  his  chair. 

"I  shall  be  better  now,"  he  said.     "You  said  you  were 


NADIR  201 

weak:  you're  not.  I'll  tell  you  why.  There's  some- 
thing about  you  that  makes  me  know  you're  straight.  I 
believe  straightness  is  the  finest  thing  on  earth.  You're 
straight.  I  can  say  things  to  you  .  .  .  anything  I  feel; 
and  know  that  even  if  you  despise  me  you  do  it — not  out 
of  conceitedness  .  .  .  but  out  of  a  sort  of  well-wishing- 
ness.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  you!  I  wish  I  had  your 
strength !  I'd  be  a  man  then !" 

He  was  smiling  now — a  light  in  his  face  that  made  its 
haggardness  disappear. 

Still  Louis  could  not  confide.  He  did  not  respect 
Daunton  enough.  He  was  chained  to  silence. 

"It's  all  illusion,"  he  said  at  last  painfully.  "I  like 
you.  I'd  like  to  help  you.  But  what's  the  good  of 
wishing?  If  I  try  to  help  anybody  I  seem  to  push  them 
deeper  in  the  mud.  Besides,  I'm  impatient  with  you.  I 
see  you  trying  your  hardest  to  make  a  mess  of  things." 

"It's  true,"  Daunton  ruefully  assented.  "You  don't 
like  me  very  much,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  chap !"  protested  Louis. 

"Well,  you're  a  good  friend,  anyway.  You  expect  me 
to  do  my  best.  That's  what  friendship  is.  You  make 
me  want  to  get  your  good  opinion.  I  mean,  I  think  to 
myself :  'Vechantor  wouldn't  do  that  .  .  .'  or  'He 
wouldn't  think  much  of  me  if  I  did  this.'  If  only  you'd 
believe  in  me  a  bit  more,  I  believe  I  could  .  .  ." 

"You've  got  Ethel  to  believe  in  you,"  Louis  cried 
sharply. 

Daunton  hesitated. 

"D'you  think  she's  got  any  reason  to  do  that?"  he 
asked.  Louis  shrugged,  and  Daunton  went  on :  "She 
knew  I  was  weak.  I'm  disappointing  her.  I  seem  to 
say  the  wrong  thing  and  make  her  miserable — make  her 
feel  she's  done  me  an  injury.  Oh  God!  What  it  is  to 
be  a  coward!" 


202  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Rubbish !"  cried  Louis.  "Don't  start  it  all  over  again. 
Far  better  go  home,  say  to  Ethel  that  you're  a  fool  but 
that  you're  not  going  to  be  a  fool  any  more.  Forget 
the  people  at  home,  and  set  yourself  to  make  a  new 
home.  Oh  ...  oh,  be  a  man !"  That  was  his  savage 
conclusion,  in  a  voice  that  brought  the  colour  to  Daun- 
ton's  cheeks.  Daunton  rose  again,  and  went  to  the  door. 

"I  see,"  he  said  unsteadily.  "All  the  same,  you're  a 
brick.  You  make  me  feel  I  can  do  it.  Can  I  come 
again  ?" 

"Yes;  when  you're  grown  up!"  Louis  said  bitterly. 
He  heard  the  door  close.  Then,  as  Daunton  had  done, 
he  put  his  hands  to  his  face,  his  cool  finger-tips  upon  his 
burning  eyelids,  in  unspeakable  anguish. 


VI 

The  next  day  saw  the  culmination  of  this  phase  of 
Louis's  life.  A  certain  large  account — the  largest  in 
which  the  firm  engaged — was  periodically  examined  and 
analysed.  This  work  had  for  years  been  done  in  con- 
junction by  Louis  and  the  firm's  chief  clerk.  Upon  this 
day  of  the  month  the  account  was  due  for  analysis,  but 
it  was  not  as  usual  brought  in  to  Louis.  Meeting  the 
chief  clerk,  Louis  said  casually: 

"Oh,  isn't  this  the  day  for  Marchants'  account?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Louis.  But  your  father  has  been  going 
through  it  with  me  himself,"  explained  the  clerk.  "He 
said  I  wasn't  to  trouble  you  with  it." 

"I  see,"  said  Louis  steadily.  "That's  quite  all  right, 
Mr.  Steed.  So  long  as  it  hasn't  been  overlooked." 

He  returned  quietly  to  his  room,  his  face  the  colour  of 
ashes,  and  his  fists  clenched.  For  a  moment  he  stood 
moodily  by  his  desk.  Then,  with  a  bitter  smile,  he  drew 


NADIR  203 

from  his  pocket  the  bunch  of  small  keys  which  he  always 
carried.  These  he  laid  upon  the  desk.  From  the  prin- 
cipal drawer  of  the  desk  he  took  some  papers,  which  he 
destroyed.  His  calendar  was  awry:  he  straightened  it, 
drawing  his  chair  close  against  the  desk.  With  no  fur- 
ther sound  he  took  his  hat  and  overcoat  from  their 
pegs,  donned  them,  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  closing 
the  door  softly  behind  him.  His  brain  was  quite  active, 
searching  in  memory  for  any  work  left  undone  that 
might  cause  inconvenience  in  the  office  if  it  were  not  re- 
called; but  then,  as  his  work  was  always  methodically 
completed,  and  as  he  could  think  of  nothing  unfinished, 
he  left  the  building  and  was  instantly  lost  in  the  crowd 
that  presses  all  day  backwards  and  forwards  along 
Liverpool  Street  and  Gracechurch  Street. 


BOOK  TWO:  LOVERS 


CHAPTER  XIV:  THE  REBEL 


OUT  in  Beckwith  the  crocuses  were  just  pushing 
their  first  green  above  the  earth.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  cold  rain,  and  the  earliest  signs  of  the 
turning  year  were  apparent  to  those  who  could  recognise 
them.  The  days  passed  very  slowly — a  little  lighter  each 
morning  and  evening,  a  little  more  luminous  while  they 
lasted.  In  the  houses  life  went  on  as  usual;  in  the  shops 
none  as  yet  could  tell  the  change  of  the  season.  Only 
in  two  shops  were  changes  apparent.  Flisk's,  near  the 
station,  where  the  poor  people  dealt,  was  more  crowded 
than  ever  with  goods,  but  they  were  goods  of  a  higher 
class  than  before.  Peel's,  in  the  High  Street,  although 
still  well  stocked  with  goods,  was  empty  of  customers. 
William  Vechantor  stood  ever-ready  behind  his  counter; 
Flisk  had  a  smart  new  young  assistant  who  called  each 
morning  for  orders,  mounted  upon  his  bicycle  and  wear- 
ing an  apron  of  which  one  corner  was  folded  back  and 
tucked  into  his  waistband.  What  was  loss  to  Peel's  was 
gain  to  Flisk's.  Flisk  counted  his  money  in  secret  mar- 
vel, and  his  books  gave  him  a  nightly  delight.  Already 
he  was  making  ambitious  plans  for  extension  of  his 
newly-prosperous  business. 

In  the  back  room  upon  the  first  floor  over  William 
Vechantor's  shop  sat  Dorothy,  frowning  over  some  ac- 
counts. Her  face  was  very  grave,  her  mouth  drawn, 
and  her  brow  puckered.  Over  her  neat  dress  she  had  a 

207 


208  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

large  dark  overall  that  made  her  look  like  a  child;  in 
her  hand  she  held  a  pencil.  She  was  alone,  gloomily 
surveying  the  wreckage  of  Peel's  business.  The  bills 
did  not  give  much  pleasure  to  Dorothy.  She  had  no 
need  of  her  natural  shrewdness  to  realise  the  position. 
The  days  went  on,  and  orders  were  few;  accounts  had 
been  closed ;  casual  customers  were  now  the  chief  feature 
of  a  business  that  had  thrived  upon  its  short-credit  sys- 
tem. The  outlook  was  bad.  William  would  not  let  it 
appear  so;  but  Dorothy  and  her  mother,  exchanging 
quick  clear  glances,  knew  that  even  his  cheery  and  reso- 
lute spirit  was  showing  signs  of  distress.  As  for  Doro- 
thy and  her  mother,  they  in  private  shook  heavy  heads, 
seeing  beyond  this  mood  of  discouragement  other  moods 
of  even  greater  difficulty.  Already  they  were  watching 
William's  face  as  he  examined  the  weekly  returns  from 
his  Holloway  shop.  In  that  shop  lay  their  hope,  but 
even  there  it  became  clear  that  there  might  be  need  of 
greater  energy,  if  returns  were  not  to  sink.  More  than 
once,  lately,  had  William  been  forced  to  spend  an  entire 
Sunday  with  his  manager,  very  seriously  discussing  the 
steps  to  be  taken  for  more  persistent  effort. 

Dorothy  knew  all  this.  She  knew  an  extraordinary 
amount  for  her  years.  With  her  fierce,  eager,  ruthless 
temperament,  she  surveyed  Beckwith  and  Holloway  alike, 
summarily  deciding  their  parts  in  the  world  of  men  and 
women.  Beckwith  was  snobbish  and  pretentious :  Hollo- 
way  needy  and  drab.  She  walked  in  Beckwith's  streets 
and  lanes,  recognising  the  people  she  met,  criticising 
them,  their  taste,  their  bearing.  Nothing  was  safe  from 
her  alert  and  fearless  eye.  The  streets,  the  houses,  the 
shops,  the  people — she  criticised  them  all :  she  knew  how 
she  could  improve  all  of  them,  and  because  of  her  youth 
and  unconscious  arrogance  she  betrayed  the  nature  of  her 
candid  summaries.  Beckwithians  did  not  like  her:  they 


THE  REBEL  209 

froze,  and  looked  sidewise  at  her  with  long  retaliatory 
glances  of  hostility.  It  seemed  to  them  such  impudence 
that  a  grocer's  daughter  should  dress  like  that  and  give 
herself  such  airs  as  Dorothy  appeared  to  do.  Really, 
what  was  one  coming  to!  Well  might  Mr.  Toppett 
speak  of  the  industrial  ferment!  Old  gentlemen,  hear- 
ing their  daughters  so  excited,  shook  their  heads,  saying : 
"Ah,  Jack's  as  good  as  his  master  now.  ...  It  was  dif- 
ferent in  the  old  days.  You  knew  where  you  were, 
then.  .  .  ."  Everywhere  the  same  first  resentful  com- 
ment persisted.  It  was  almost  as  though  the  girl  did  not 
realise  that  she  was  being  ignored.  Almost,  one  might 
have  said,  it  was  she  who  carried  her  head  highest  of 
all.  The  ladies  of  Beckwith  were  the  people  who  most 
resented  Dorothy.  They  were  often — they  said — quite 
amused  at  the  airs  she  gave  herself.  And  when  one 
says  one  is  amused  at  anything,  one  generally  indicates 
another  emotion  altogether.  They  wondered  how  long 
it  would  be  before  the  shop  was  shut,  or  the  business 
sold. 

Dorothy,  indignantly  conning  bills,  had  a  subconscious 
awareness  of  this  general  suppressed  malignance  towards 
herself.  It  was  not  present  to  her,  for  her  mind  was 
busy  otherwise.  The  lesson  of  the  accounts  was  already 
fully  known  to  her,  and  she  was  lost  in  a  reverie.  In 
that  reverie  was  the  strangest  mingled  yarn  of  a  young 
girl's  thoughts — ambitions,  angers,  sweetnesses,  plans 
for  the  morrow,  plans  for  the  distant  future,  thoughts  of 
clothes  and  beauties,  music,  food,  and  ideals,  all  were 
involved  in  her  dreams,  inextricably  curled  about  each 
other  as  was  the  poet's  love  about  the  world.  Dorothy's 
face  was  sober,  but  there  was  a  tenderness  in  her  eyes 
that  softened  her  whole  appearance.  She  was  not  thus 
the  self-possessed  girl  who  riddled  the  pretensions  of 
Beckwith,  but  one  much  wiser  and  finer.  Presently  she 


210  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

put  down  her  pencil,  and,  leaning  forward,  rested  her 
elbows  upon  the  table  and  her  chin  within  her  two  hands. 
Her  fingers  crept  up  until  they  pinched  her  cheeks,  so 
deep  in  thought  was  Dorothy.  She  smiled  to  herself, 
and  frowned,  and  smiled  again. 

"Why  doesn't  he  come?"  she  was  thinking.     "Why 
doesn't  he  come  ?     I  want  him  to  come !" 


11 

And  then  her  attention  strayed.  Often  during  her 
walks  she  met  three  girls,  smartly  dressed  in  the  Beck- 
with  fashion,  which  was  almost,  but  not  quite,  the  fashion 
observed  in  the  West  End  of  London,  speaking  to  each 
other — when  they  wished  to  be  or  were  likely  to  be  over- 
heard— in  the  drawling  refinement  of  the  suburbs.  They 
always  omitted  the  "r"  in  words:  they  said  "yaw"  for 
"your,"  and  "faw-faive"  for  "four-or-five,"  and  "eaou" 
for  "oh,"  and  "thawt"  for  "thought,"  and  emphasised 
words  such  as  "so  sweet,"  in  a  superior  way  that  made 
them  the  linguistic  equals  of  all  the  best  people  in  Beck- 
with,  who  observe  this  drawl  with  pathetic  belief  in  tone 
and  inflection.  And  every  time  Dorothy  met  these  three 
girls,  who  were  always  together,  and  always  wore  these 
almost  fashionable  and  sometimes  pretty  and  tasteful 
clothes,  she  was  conscious  of  limitless  comparisons.  She 
spoke  more  correctly  than  they  did,  she  dressed  on  the 
whole  more  becomingly;  but  there  was  a  spark  of  envy  in 
her  contemplation.  Like  all  those  who  are  rather  different 
from  their  fellows  she  wished  to  have  her  cake  and  to  eat 
it  at  the  same  time.  She  envied  them  their  complacent 
conventionality,  because,  although  she  could  not  have  so 
expressed  it,  they  had  a  tradition  behind  them.  She  saw 
Adela  and  Judith  and  Veronica  in  their  place  in  the 


THE  REBEL  211 

Beckwithian  world.  Only  she  was  outside,  something 
different ;  a  girl,  as  they  were  girls,  but  a  girl  apart.  Not 
for  worlds  would  she  have  exchanged  the  character  of 
Dorothy  Vechantor  for  the  character  of  any  Hughes  girl 
in  England;  but  she  envied  them  their  lack  of  oddness. 
She  wanted  to  be  odd  and  not  odd ;  she  wanted  to  be  able 
to  say  "Hullo !"  to  these  girls,  because  she  had  no  quarrel 
with  them;  but  when  she  saw  their  unfriendly  eyes  her 
heart  was  hardened.  She  criticised  them;  the  conven- 
tionality she  envied  in  one  moment  she  despised  in  the 
next.  They  seemed  so  content,  and  Dorothy  so  restless. 

Thoughts  of  the  Hughes  girls  pressed  upon  her.  She 
could  mimic  them  in  her  own  mind,  piercing  their  silly 
pretensions  and  scorning  their  unfriendliness.  But  the 
refrain  in  her  mind  was  always:  "Why  am  I  different? 
Why  do  they  think  themselves  better  than  I?  When 
they're  not!"  If  she  spoke  about  this  thing  to  her 
mother,  Mum  only  tried  to  soothe  her;  so  that  Dorothy 
was  irritated.  There  was  nobody  with  whom  she  could 
so  candidly  discuss  the  problem  as  to  bring  to  her 
wounded  heart  the  relief  of  being  comprehended.  She 
was  lonely:  it  is  the  penalty  paid  by  oddness.  Dorothy 
would  not  have  relinquished  her  oddness  for  all  the  re- 
wards of  Beckwith. 

One  day  she  had  seen  a  dear  old  lady  walking  slowly 
across  the  common.  She  thought  to  herself  that  she  had 
never  seen  such  a  dear  old  lady;  and  Dorothy  liked  old 
ladies  who  were  not  moribund  or  malicious.  This  old 
lady  had  white  hair,  and  a  soft  pleasant  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  and  a  sweet  mouth  and  gentle  eyes.  At  the  first 
glimpse  of  her  Dorothy  felt  strangely  friendly,  and 
wanted  to  nod  and  smile  to  the  old  lady.  She  walked 
briskly  on,  filled  with  a  sense  of  the  lovely  day  and  the 
happy  knowledge  that  in  Beckwith  there  was  one  nice 
person;  and  as  she  drew  abreast  of  the  old  lady  she 


212  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

looked  sharply  up,  so  as  to  smile  at  her.  It  was  with 
a  shock  that  she  saw  the  old  lady's  head  averted,  so  that 
their  eyes  did  not  meet.  For  many  minutes  Dorothy 
trembled  under  that  disappointment.  She  was  a  child 
still,  to  be  wounded  by  an  unexpected  and  causeless  lack 
of  response  to  her  charm.  She  quickly  guessed  the  iden- 
tity of  the  old  lady. 

Of  Mrs.  Vechantor,  therefore,  she  thought  sometimes 
in  her  musings.  Of  a  puzzling  Mrs.  Vechantor  who 
would  have  been  so  beautiful  to  know  if  Dorothy  had 
not  been  her  cousin!  Of  one  who  really  would  have 
nodded  and  smiled  to  the  daughter  of  the  grocer,  but  who 
would  not  risk  giving  encouragement  to  a  possibly  im- 
portunate relative!  Dorothy  thought  of  her  as  "Louis's 
mother,"  and  in  a  sympathetic  way  was  sorry  for  her; 
but  that  did  not  prevent  a  little  trembling  of  agitation, 
of  indignant  pride,  whenever  she  recalled  that  meeting. 

And  then  back  came  Dorothy's  thoughts  to  Louis. 
Her  heart  swelled  because  he  had  been  their  champion. 
All  that  weakness  which  Louis  destructively  saw  in  him- 
self was  hidden  from  Dorothy,  or  was  transfigured  in 
her  eyes.  She  felt  that  he  had  meant  to  stand  by  them ; 
she  was  ashamed  to  have  rebuffed  him  at  first.  She  ex- 
alted his  loyalty,  and  even  his  resolution,  which  to  Louis 
in  his  sense  of  failure  had  become  so  inglorious.  His 
face  appeared  before  her  eyes.  She  reflected  upon  him, 
shrewdly,  kindly,  seeing  a  weakness  altogether  unrealised 
by  Louis.  She  planned  for  him,  as  well  as  for  herself. 
She  planned  work  for  him,  a  future ;  she  was  ambitious 
for  him.  Louis  was  worthy  of  something  better  than 
Beckwith,  better  than  stagnation  in  his  father's  office. 
And  it  was  Dorothy  who  was  to  inspire  him.  Contrary 
to  all  the  canons  of  Beckwith,  Dorothy,  without  waiting 
for  the  thunder-clap  of  a  proposal  of  marriage,  had 
fallen  rather  in  love  with  her  cousin.  It  was  a  love 


THE  REBEL 

different  in  kind  from  that  of  Beckwith  girls.  She  did 
not  see  a  home,  and  babies,  and  silver,  and  little  dinner- 
parties. How  odd!  She  saw  Louis  engaged  in  what 
she  called  "doing  something  worth  while."  She  saw 
him  using  his  brains,  saw  herself  helping  him,  not  for 
any  accession  of  social  importance  to  herself  or  to  Louis, 
but  for  the  love  of  the  thing,  an  eager  reaching-out  to 
infinite  virtue.  She  had  slipped  into  it  unawares,  in 
the  course  of  her  broodings.  It  was  a  curious  dream; 
but  it  made  Dorothy  smile  with  happiness.  It  made  her 
forget  Beckwith,  and  the  Hughes  girls,  and  Mrs.  Ve- 
chantor.  All  she  needed  was  the  presence  of  Louis,  so 
that  her  dreams  might  be  put  to  the  best  of  contact  with 
actual  possibilities.  But  wasn't  Louis  going  to  receive 
a  surprise  in  this  remarkable  new  crystallisation  of  his 
character ! 

iii 

Dorothy  sighed  in  the  midst  of  her  dreaming.  After 
all,  she  suddenly  understood,  she  was  only  a  silly,  poorly- 
educated  girl.  She  knew  she  was  intelligent:  she  could 
not  help  knowing  that.  Her  rebelliousness  came  from 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  better  than  her  opportunities 
gave  her  any  chance  of  showing.  But  the  thought  of 
Louis  was  not  any  ambitious  hitching  of  her  wagon  to 
a  star :  it  was  disinterested.  It  was  only  eager  and 
impulsive,  not  calculated.  She  had  never  met  anybody 
like  Louis.  His  strangeness  drew  her  strangeness:  he 
was  odd,  as  she  was  odd.  In  her  arrogance  she  almost 
shouted,  "Thank  God  for  oddness!" — never  realising 
that  the  exaltation  of  oddness  is  the  exaltation  of  anarchy 
and  the  beginning  of  a  call  for  persecution.  She  was 
in  conflict  with  a  natural  law.  She  was  a  rebel,  glorify- 
ing rebellion.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  Beckwith  instincrf 
tively  felt  Dorothy  to  be  a  dangerous  person  ? 


214,  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Back  came  her  eyes  to  the  books  upon  the  table  before 
her.  Here  were  no  dreams;  but  ugly  illustrations  of 
facts  still  more  ugly.  Bills  that  were  for  small  sums; 
pages  which  were  ruled  off  as  things  completed ;  a  few 
bills  that  would  never  be  paid.  Another  deep  sigh  shook 
Dorothy. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "If  there  wasn't  all  this  money- 
grubbing  in  the  world!  If  there  were  real  love!  In- 
stead of  this  hatred!  They  call  themselves  Christians! 
Virtuous  people!" 

For  a  few  moments  she  was  very  cynical.  And  then 
she  heard  the  door  beside  the  shop  opened,  and  her 
mother's  voice  upon  the  stairs,  and  another,  unfamiliar 
voice.  Dorothy  pricked  up  her  ears.  Not  Louis !  Oh, 
not  Louis !  But  whom  could  it  be  ? 

iv 

It  was  Mrs.  Toppett,  and  Mrs.  Toppett  shy  and  smil- 
ing. 

"How  d'you  do,"  she  said;  and  shook  hands  with  a 
Dorothy  who  was  rather  suspicious  of  this  unexpected 
visitor.  The  clergyman's  wife  was  a  small  pale  woman, 
not  very  interestingly  dressed,  rather  nervous  in  manner, 
with  strained  eyes  that  made  her  seem  to  be  always  put- 
ting the  best  face  upon  things  in  spite  of  incurable 
melancholy  and  lack  of  stamina.  Mrs.  Toppett  pro- 
ceeded. "It  was  so  nice  of  your  mother  to  take  such 
lovely  eatables  to  Mrs.  Humphries.  Poor  old  soul :  she's 
so  grateful!  And  your  mother  said  you  had  found  out 
about  Mrs.  Humphries  and  told  about  her;  so  I  thought 
I'd  like  to  come  in  and  thank  you,  Miss  Vechantor.  I've 
been  rather  unwell,  and  so  I  haven!t  been  round  to  my 
poor  people  for  a  week.  And  my  husband's  such  a  busy 
man  that  he  hasn't  been  able  to  go  himself." 

She  spoke  rather  quickly,  as  if  she  were  embarrassed. 


THE  REBEL  215 

Dorothy  softened,  stiffening  again  only  at  the  mention  of 
Mr.  Toppett,  whom  she  had  so  often  seen  calling  upon 
his  richer  parishioners. 

"Is  Mrs.  Humphries  better?"  she  asked. 

"Much  better.  She  wants  you  to  go  and  see  her  again. 
She's  been  praising  you  to  the  skies."  Mrs.  Toppett 
meant  only  to  be  amiable ;  but  Dorothy  read  patronage  in 
this  eager  flattery.  Particularly  when  Mrs.  Toppett 
concluded :  "She  says  you're  better  than  all  the  doc- 
tors .  .  ." 

"And  tracts,"  added  Mrs.  William.  Mrs.  Toppett 
smiled  ruefully. 

"Yes:  I'm  afraid  she  did  say  that,"  she  admitted. 
"But  I  told  her  how  naughty  it  was." 

"Do  you  like  tracts?"  asked  Dorothy  bluntly.  A 
shadow  crossed  Mrs.  Toppett's  eyes. 

"Well,  I  don't  send  them  to  Mrs.  Humphries.  The 
distribution  of  tracts  is  .  .  ."  She  stopped  suddenly, 
and,  with  a  charming  ingenuousness,  stepping  a  little 
towards  Dorothy,  went  on :  "It's  not  quite  in  my  line. 
But  you  won't  tell  anybody  I  said  that,  will  you,  Miss 
Vechantor?" 

Dorothy  smiled. 

"I  shan't  see  anybody  to  tell,"  she  said  dryly.  Her 
mother  had  gone  out  of  the  room,  and  she  was  alone 
with  Mrs.  Toppett.  "The  whole  of  Beckwith,  except 
the  poor  people,  thinks  I'm  poisonous." 

Mrs.  Toppett,  with  all  the  tact  of  the  simple  and  good- 
natured  person,  countered  that. 

"/  don't,"  she  remarked.  "And  .  .  .  well,  it's  not  a 
thing  one  can  talk  about,  is  it?"  They  stood  looking  at 
each  other.  Then  Mrs.  Toppett  sighed.  "I'm  as  sorry 
as  I  can  say,"  she  gently  added. 

"Is  your  husband  sorry?"  relentlessly  asked  Dorothy. 

Mrs.  Toppett  did  not  answer.     She  looked  pleadingly 


216  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

at  Dorothy,  and  that  glance,  from  a  young  woman  to  a 
girl,  touched  Dorothy  more  than  any  protest  could  have 
done.  It  was  a  request  for  tolerance,  it  was  an  apology, 
a  rebuke.  It  softened  Dorothy  because  it  showed  her 
the  possibility  that  even  a  Christian  might  be  a  human 
being,  which,  in  the  swift  assumption  that  the  unchar- 
itableness  of  Beckwith  was  characteristically  Christian, 
Dorothy  had  been  inclined  hitherto  to  disbelieve. 

"Are  you  going  to  have  some  tea?"  Dorothy  asked. 

"Your  mother  was  so  kind  ..." 

"Do  sit  down.  I'll  just  move  these  books.  .  .  ." 
Dorothy  was  all  humility.  Mrs.  Toppett  had  shown  her 
the  way.  Dorothy  thought:  "What  a  dreadful  thing  to 
be  a  clergyman's  wife.  And  to  love  him!"  Her  eyes 
shone  with  pity  for  Mrs.  Toppett. 


"D'you  know,  I  wish  something  could  be  done,"  Mrs. 
Toppett  began.  "It's  so  difficult  .  .  ." 

"About  what?"  Dorothy  asked  dangerously. 

"I  wanted  you  to  come  and  play  at  our  concerts.  The 
poor  people  like  them  so  much.  .  .  .  You  do  play,  don't 
you?  .  .  .  Generally  Adela  Hughes  comes.  .  .  ." 

Dorothy  laughed  slightly. 

"I  think  the  .  .  .  the  poor  people  would  like  comic 
songs  best,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  but  we're  trying  to  educate  them  to  better 
things.  .  .  ."  . 

"Ragtime?" 

"Oh  no.  ...  Ballads.  ...  Of  course,  an  occasional 
comic  song.  ...  Of  course!  Mr.  Bastable  comes  over 
from  Sevenoaks.  He's  so  droll,  and  sings  those  charm- 
ing songs  of  Albert  Chevalier's.  .  .  .  And  Mr.  Dean 
gives  us  readings  from  Dickens,  or  recites  something  like 


THE  REBEL  217 

'The  Raven,'  or  something  well-known.  And  little  Miss 
Corntoft  plays  on  her  clarinet.  And  Veronica  Hughes 
sings.  She  has  a  very  pretty  voice,  you  know.  She's 
such  a  nice  girl." 

"But  you  see,  Mrs.  Toppett,  they're  so  frightened  in 
case  I  want  to  ...  to  pretend  I'm  not  the  grocer's 
daughter.  And  of  course  I  feel  I'm  rather  like  a  human 
being." 

"Oh,  Miss  Vechantor !"  Mrs.  Toppett  looked  vaguely 
distressed.  "I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  like  that. 
Surely  we're  not  as  ...  in  these  democratic  days  .  .  ." 
But  she  was  constrained. 

"I'm  only  judging  by  the  way  everybody  has  treated 
me  since  we've  been  here.  I  haven't  wanted  to  scrape 
acquaintance  with  anybody;  but  I  have  felt  rather  sick 
at  the  way  everybody's  drawn  their  skirts  away  from  us. 
I  know  it's  principally  because  of  our  name.  Still,  when 
you  speak  of  my  helping  at  the  concerts — I  suppose  they 
are  liked, — I  can't  help  feeling  that  if  I  were  to  come  and 
sing  or  play  the  other  girls  would  make  excuses  not  to 
come  .  .  ." 

"I'm  sure  they  wouldn't,"  cried  Mrs.  Toppett  stoutly. 
"They're  not  like  that." 

"And  your  husband  wouldn't  like  it." 

There  was  a  silence,  an  exchanged  glance.  Mrs.  Top- 
pett knew  that  Dorothy  was  speaking  the  truth;  but  she 
could  not,  in  her  impulsive  wish  that  everybody  should 
be  friends,  accept  the  horrible  truth  that  there  was  no 
general  atmosphere  of  friendliness  outside  the  accepted 
radius  of  geniality. 

"If  I  can  ...     If  I  ask  you  to  come.     Will  you?" 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  come." 

"And  sing?"  Mrs.  Toppett's  face  brightened.  "My 
dear  ...  If  everybody  knew  what  a  nice  girl  you  were, 
they'd  .  .  ." 


218  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"But  I'm  not  a  nice  girl,"  Dorothy  said.  It  gave  Mrs, 
Toppett  a  shock. 

"I'm  sure  you  are,"  she  answered.  "And  I  don't  know 
why  you  say  you  aren't.  And  you  do  think  I'm  .  .  . 
well,  sincere  .  .  .  don't  you  ?"  She  was  very  appealing. 

"I  think  you're  lovely,"  Dorothy  cried  sharply;  and 
the  tears  started  to  her  eyes  at  Mrs.  Toppett's  flush  of 
pleasure. 

"You  see,  I'm  rather  lonely,  too,  in  Beckwith,"  said 
Mrs.  Toppett,  in  a  very  low  voice.  "I  feel  as  though  I'd 
been  buried  alive  ..." 

She  was  as  shocked  with  herself  as  any  Beckwithian, 
overhearing  her,  could  have  been.  But  Mrs.  Toppett 
had  always  been  subject  to  these  impulsive  bursts  of  in- 
discretion. She  was  one  of  those  feeble  women  who 
are  sometimes  attacked  by  social  panic  and  the  longing 
for  love  that  is  more  than  peckish.  And  she  had  been 
in  Beckwith  for  six  years  without  finding  a  single  open 
heart  outside  Apple  House. 

"That  must  be  horrible !"  said  Dorothy  in  quick  sym- 
pathy. Mrs.  Toppett  recovered  herself. 

"Don't  tell  anybody !"  she  whispered,  with  a  finger  to 
her  lips. 

Mrs.  William  appeared  at  the  door,  carrying  a  little 
white  tablecloth. 

vi 

For  the  remainder  of  Mrs.  Toppett's  visit  they  talked 
of  all  sorts  of  indifferent  matters,  and  the  clergyman's 
wife  impressed  both  Dorothy  and  Mrs.  William  with  a 
sense  of  her  extreme  simplicity  and  good-nature.  They 
both  liked  her,  and  were  both  subtly  sorry  for  her.  She 
was  almost  entirely  without  "manner"  (Beckwith  serv- 
ants always  doubted,  because  of  this  trait,  whether  she 
were  really  "gentry"  at  all)  ;  and  when  she  spoke  of  her- 


THE  REBEL  219 

self  it  was  without  any  of  that  anxious  deprecating 
vanity  that  is  so  common  in  Beckwith.  She  referred  to 
no  canon,  no  bishop,  no  social  light.  All  her  talk  was 
of  her  babies  and  her  old  home ;  and  she  seemed  to  con- 
vey the  notion  that  she  really  liked  sitting  in  a  grocer's 
parlour  and  talking  with  two  undistinguished  persons. 
She  left  a  very  kind  impression  indeed.  The  little  em- 
phatic clinging  of  her  hand  to  Dorothy's  hand,  and  the 
backward  glance  of  liking  and  trust  which  she  bestowed 
at  parting  were  as  sweet  and  cordial  as  any  sensitive 
heart  could  have  wished. 

As  she  went  upstairs  again  Dorothy  felt  her  heart 
mounting  exultantly. 

"How  nice  she  is !"  she  cried.  "How  nice  she  is!"  In 
a  flash  her  mind  turned  once  more  to  Louis,  wishing  that 
he  could  share  this  moment  of  happiness.  Did  Louis 
like  Mrs.  Toppett?  Did  Mrs.  Toppett  like  Louis? 
Why,  they  had  not  once  mentioned  him !  And  yet  Louis 
had  been  in  Dorothy's  heart  all  the  time.  She  saw  him 
in  her  mind's  eye,  cool  and  handsome,  and  the  picture 
reassured  her. 

"Though  I  wish  he'd  take  his  moustache  off,"  she  shyly 
thought.  "Beastly  glossy  little  thing!" 

Her  cheeks  felt  warm  at  such  criticism.  Louis  would 
not  like  such  a  thought  in  her.  Would  he  mind  it? 
How  careful  she  would  have  to  be,  so  that  his  feelings 
should  never  be  hurt !  Louis !  Poor  Louis !  But  where 
was  he  ?  Why  did  he  not  come  to  see  them  ? 

"I  wish  he'd  come!"  she  thought.  "I  want  him  to 
rome — soon !" 


CHAPTER  XV:  BELOW  THE  SURFACE 


BUT  Louis  did  not  come.  He  neither  came  nor 
wrote,  and  his  silence,  occurring  at  that  time, 
deepened  Dorothy's  love  for  him  as  nothing  else  could 
have  done.  Had  she  seen  him  each  day,  with  their 
comradeship  established,  love  might  have  been  a  slow 
growth :  deprived  of  the  sight  of  him,  Dorothy  was  aware 
of  increasing  desire,  a  preoccupation,  a  craving.  She 
became  stiller,  more  silent.  Her  expression  was  graver. 
She  lived  a  great  deal  in  a  few  days,  thinking  about  him 
•during  her  walks  and  during  silent  evenings.  As  she 
lay  in  bed,  waiting  for  sleep,  she  turned  restlessly,  always 
preoccupied  with  Louis  and  only  Louis.  She,  like  Ethel, 
had  never  been  in  love  before.  She  had  had  no  juvenile 
love-affairs,  none  of  those  girlish  intrigues  that  are  car- 
ried on  with  so  many  little  lies  and  subterfuges  in  every 
quarter  of  the  civilised  world.  The  mingled  sweetness 
and  anxiety  of  her  thoughts,  her  extraordinary  ignorance 
of  Louis,  gave  a  new  reflectiveness  to  her  character.  It 
was  not  that  she  invented  a  new  and  romantic  Louis :  she 
resembled,  rather,  one  of  those  devoted  men  who  decipher 
ancient  inscriptions.  She  "edited"  Louis.  She  read 
meanings,  she  linked  odd  memories.  It  was  young  love ; 
but  it  was  deep  and  sincere  love,  that  would  last.  She 
was  very  happy,  with  a  curious  pained  happiness  that 
was  half  made  up  of  longing.  She  laughed  sometimes  to 
herself,  only  half-realising  that  she  was  in  love,  but 

220 


BELOW  THE  SURFACE  221 

finding  this  new  experience  very  wonderful  and  a  cause 
of  secret  joy.  It  gave  her  life  new  significance,  as 
though  she  had  hitherto  been  groping  blindly,  without 
any  clear  aim.  Now,  that  was  all  changed.  All  the 
vague  purposes  that  had  filled  her  attention  had  been 
synthesised.  She  saw  life  differently.  It  was  not  a 
matter  of  quick  feelings  any  more;  but  a  definite  waiting, 
most  sweet  to  endure.  Ah,  if  Louis  loved  her!  Even 
that  did  not  matter:  if  she  could  only  be  important  to 
him,  such  a  value  would  be  enough.  How  extraordinary 
it  was  that  she  had  existed  for  twenty-one  years  with- 
out ever  being  aware  of  mystery  in  life!  Mystery — 
why  everything  was  shot  and  coloured  with  it!  Every 
smallest  thing  was  a  part  of  love ! 

Sometimes  she  would  feel  deeply  unhappy,  as  though 
a  weight  of  despair  were  upon  her.  At  other  times, 
when  the  sun  shone,  when  she  heard  lovely  sounds  in  the 
opening  freshness  of  the  year,  her  heart  expanded  and  a 
happiness  that  was  wholly  beautiful  filled  her  being. 
She  sang  while  she  walked  alone  in  the  wide  roads  about 
Beckwith.  She  walked  in  the  direction  in  which  they 
had  all  walked  together,  reviving  her  feelings,  recalling 
the  sound  of  Louis's  voice,  and  her  own  quickened  in- 
terest in  him.  The  road  was  beautiful  and  unfre-i 
quented :  she  had  nothing  to  interfere  with  her  memory. 
All  was  perfect  and  in  strange  accord.  She  had  not  lived 
until  now.  She  had  been  deaf  and  blind.  And 
Louis  ...  A  pity  came  stealing  into  her  heart.  Poor 
Louis!  Dear  Louis!  When  she  was  very  solitary  she 
spoke  to  him :  it  seemed  to  her  that  they  had  long  slow 
conversations,  beautifully  intimate  and  secret;  and  in 
these  imaginary  conversations  she  learned  new  things 
about  her  own  nature.  They  were  not  all  good  things : 
her  reveries  were  never  occupied  with  apologetics,  be- 
cause Dorothy  was  a  realist,  and  had  almost  no  senti- 


222  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

mentality  in  her  temperament.  She  loved,  but  she  did 
not  therefore  hurry  over  the  sense  of  her  own  defects. 
She  was  faulty,  and  she  knew  it;  but  she  honestly  ex- 
plained those  faults  to  the  supposed  and  beatified  Louis, 
so  that,  realising  them  more  clearly,  she  found  better 
means  of  restraining  her  faults.  She  did  not  wish  to 
appear  to  him  otherwise  than  as  she  was.  But  she 
wanted  him  to  love  her  in  spite  of  her  faults,  because 
that  was  the  way  she  loved  Louis.  She  wanted  to  say — 
I'm  hard,  and  cruel,  and  selfish ;  but  you're  my  dear,  and 
if  you'll  love  me  and  believe  in  me  as  I  love  and  believe 
in  you  I  shall  be  wiser  and  kinder  and  more  gentle  simply 
in  trying  to  be  worthy  of  your  love. 

It  was  a  beautiful  time  to  Dorothy,  in  spite  of  the 
shop,  in  spite  of  the  houses  filled  with  unhappy  and  ill- 
disposed  people  which  she  passed  each  day.  Seeing  her 
smiling  as  she  passed,  the  people  felt  more  friendly  to 
her.  They  saw  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes  spark- 
ling, and  the  new  clear  happiness  in  her  expression ;  and 
they  did  not  dislike  her  so  much.  One  or  two  of  them 
began  to  smile  back  at  her,  to  nod  and  say  "Good  after- 
noon." Mr.  Toppett,  primed  by  his  wife,  was  one  of 
these.  He  even,  by  some  involuntary  movement,  raised 
his  hat  to  her;  and  although  on  their  next  meeting  he 
avoided  seeing  her  Mr.  Toppett  very  quickly  recovered 
his  coolness,  and  a  friendly  greeting  between  them  be- 
came quite  customary.  That  did  Dorothy  a  great  deal 
of  good.  It  made  her  more  charitable.  Seeing  Mr. 
Toppett  friendly,  other  Beckwithians  stopped  her  in  the 
street.  They  were  patronising,  because  they  were  self- 
conscious;  but  they  meant  kindly,  and  Dorothy's  resent- 
ment faded.  She  was  bright  and  merry  in  meeting  them. 
Quite  a  new  air  came  into  her  relations  with  about  a 
dozen  of  them.  Only  the  Hughes  girls  were  still  im- 
placable. Dorothy  could  not  understand  why  the  pretti- 


BELOW  THE  SURFACE 

est  of  them  looked  at  her  with  such  unfailing  hostility. 
At  first  she  disliked  her.  Then,  one  day,  she  met 
Veronica  alone.  They  passed  slowly,  and  Veronica 
looked  away,  her  face  pale  as  marble,  and  her  eyes  glit- 
tering. "Poor  girl!"  thought  Dorothy.  "She's  ill." 
She  turned  back  as  Veronica  went  on  down  the  road,  and 
Veronica  also  was  looking  back.  Dorothy  continued  her 
walk,  her  head  bent.  "She's  unhappy,"  was  her  next 
thought.  "Not  ill;  but  unhappy.  Oh,  how  dreadful  it 
is  to  be  unhappy!  Her  eyes  looked  hungry.  She  hates 
me.  I'm  sure  she  hates  me.  I  wonder  why  she's  un- 
happy .  .  .  Perhaps  she  .  .  .  likes  somebody  .  .  ." 
Swiftly,  Dorothy's  mind  turned  that  impulsive  guess  into 
a  personal  conviction.  "I  think  she's  in  love — and 
doesn't  know  if  he  wants  her.  Perhaps  she  knows  he 
doesn't.  Oh,  poor  girl !" 


11 

Young  girls  with  their  lives  before  them  are  often 
more  patient  in  love  than  older  women  can  bear  to  be. 
So  Dorothy  was  able  to  live  through  those  weeks  of 
Louis's  silence  without  the  dreadful  anxiety  which  later 
might  have  beset  her.  She  was  so  modest,  and  yet  so 
confident  of  the  power  of  love  and  of  youth,  that  she  did 
not  see  the  dark  future  with  misgiving.  It  was  enough 
to  live  and  to  love.  Time  would  complete  love's  work. 
But  once  she  had  thought  of  Veronica  as  in  love  she  felt 
only  a  blessed  pity  for  her.  Generously,  she  desired  for 
Veronica  the  fulfilment  of  her  dream.  It  seemed  so 
hard,  so  impossible,  that  a  girl  so  pretty  as  Veronica 
should  vainly  desire  a  precious  gift.  Dorothy  watched 
for  Veronica,  noticing  that  there  was  no  difference  in 
her  demeanour  each  day.  Only  a  sort  of  cold  contemptu- 


224  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

ousness  came  from  Veronica  as  they  passed,  but  Dorothy 
read  deeper,  and  saw  envy.  "She's  unhappy.  She  sees 
I'm  happy.  She  wishes  she  were  happy  .  .  ."  ran  Doro- 
thy's thoughts.  "I  don't  expect  I've  got  much  to  be 
happy  about.  If  she  knew  how  little,  she  very  likely 
wouldn't  envy  me.  Poor  girl.  Ah,  but  she  looks  as 
though  being  unhappy  hurt  her  more  than  it  would  hurt 
me.  I  can  bear  to  be  unhappy.  I'm  stronger  than  she 
is.  She  can't  bear  it  ...  I'm  stronger  than  she 
is  .  .  ." 

Dorothy  had  discovered  a  profound  truth;  but  she 
had  nobody  to  commend  her  for  it.  There  was  nobody 
in  Beckwith  who  could  have  appreciated  its  profundity. 
She  had  realised  that  pain  can  be  borne  by  those  who  are 
enriched  by  pain.  Her  pity  for  Veronica  was  based  upon 
a  true  instinct.  She  was  an  observer.  If  Veronica  had 
only  known,  Dorothy  thought,  she  would  have  been  less 
contemptuous  and  would  have  smiled  back  at  Dorothy  and 
begun  a  friendship.  Instead,  she  began  to  avoid  the  roads 
that  Dorothy  was  likely  to  take,  and  when  they  accident- 
ally met  Dorothy  saw  Veronica  turn  down  other  roads 
in  order  that  they  should  not  have  to  pass  each  other. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  me  she  hates,"  she  thought,  "or  just 
meeting  anybody  who  looks  sympathetically  at  her.  Per- 
haps it  annoys  and  troubles  her.  I  wonder  how  I  should 
feel  ...  I  should  have  thought  unhappy  people  liked 
sympathy.  Perhaps  not  when  they're  very  unhappy. 
Perhaps  she  thinks  it's  rude  of  me  to  feel  sorry  for  her. 
Poor  girl.  When  really  I  only  wanted  to  show  that  I  felt 
kind.  ...  I  expect  it's  only  because  I'm  the  grocer's 
daughter.  I  wonder  if  Louis  knows  her.  Perhaps  she's 
a  friend  of  his.  I  must  ask  him.  .  .  ."  That  thought 
led  to  a  quick  sigh.  How  could  she  ask  him,  when  he 
came  no  longer  to  Beckwith  ?  A  sharp  restlessness  seized 
her.  What  if  he  never  came?  Wouldn't  she  then  feel 


BELOW  THE  SURFACE  225 

as  unhappy  as  Veronica  Hughes?    Dorothy's  eyes  dark- 
ened with  distress. 

iii 

She  was  content  to  go  on  loving,  for  the  present  The 
passion  for  certainty  that  besets  most  people  was  not  yet 
hers.  She  did  not  demand  proofs.  It  may  be  that  her 
nature  had  no  need  of  them.  To  live  thus,  in  a  dream  of 
happiness,  was  something  so  new  that  it  was  sufficient  for 
all  her  waking  hours.  Only  when  she  slept  did  dreams 
of  Louis  menace  her  contentment.  Then  came  her  hours 
of  secret  pain,  when  the  longings  of  her  heart  were  no 
more  controlled  by  her  eager  interest  in  life.  It  was  as 
though  she  suffered  and  learned  deeper  truths  about  her 
love,  which  otherwise  was  too  sweet  to  be  a  cause  of 
wounding  distress.  She  awoke  sometimes  with  tears 
upon  her  cheeks,  and  the  memory  of  sadness.  It  made 
her  shy;  so  that  she  could  not  exchange  those  frank  con- 
fidences of  old  with  her  mother.  Her  mother  had  be- 
come a  stranger:  perfect  frankness  was  no  longer  pos- 
sible between  them.  Dorothy  saw  a  cautious  anxiety  in 
Mrs.  William's  eye,  hidden  rapidly  by  a  grotesquely  tact- 
ful smile  that  only  emphasised  the  anxiety  and  deepened 
the  caution;  and  this  new  glimpse  of  her  mother's  love 
brought  daytime  tears  of  a  sort  of  exultant  pity  and  grati- 
tude. "Poor  dear!"  she  thought.  "She's  so  mystified. 
.  .  .  As  if  I  were  still  a  little  girl.  .  .  .  She'll  suggest 
a  poultice!  Poor  old  dear!" 

The  days  passed,  and  no  Louis  came:  The  date  of  the 
concert  approached;  and  Dorothy  was  formally  asked 
to  take  part  in  it.  After  she  had  agreed  to  do  so  she 
saw  outside  the  Church  Rooms  in  which  the  concerts  were 
given  a  large  board  upon  which  a  local  amateur  had  set 
forth  in  large  script  the  large  word  "CONCERT"  and, 
in  smaller  lettering,  the  names  of  the  undistinguished 


226  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"artistes."  Dorothy's  breath  caught  at  the  sight.  .  .  . 
"Miss  Irene  Corntoft,  Miss  Veronica  Hughes,  Miss  Dor- 
othy Vechantor  .  .  ."  "Miss  Dorothy  Vechantor  .  .  . 
Miss  Dorothy  Vechantor."  It  seemed  as  though  it  were 
not  her  name  at  all;  but  the  name  of  a  strange  girl  in 
Beckwith  in  whom  she  felt  a  curious  poignant  interest. 
"Miss  Dorothy  Vechantor" — who  was  this  girl?  The 
name  was  the  name  she  had  borne  since  childhood;  but 
the  appearance  of  it  in  Beckwith  struck  her  as  an  amaz- 
ing phenomenon.  She  could  imagine  the  inhabitants  read- 
ing it.  They,  too,  would  be  surprised.  They  would 
think  "That  girl!"  They  would  be  inquisitive;  they 
would  perhaps  come  to  hear  her.  What  would  Veronica 
Hughes  say  and  do  ?  Would  she  come  at  all  ?  How  mys- 
terious, how  delightfully  mysterious,  it  was!  How 
frightened  she  began  to  feel!  It  was  the  most  daring 
thing  she  had  ever  done. 

iv 

About  this  time,  Dorothy  had  a  surprising  adventure, 
which  carried  her  still  farther  upon  the  wave  which  had 
caught  her  up  and  was  bearing  her  into  the  life  of  Beck- 
with. She  had  gone  out  one  morning,  because  her  work 
was  finished  and  the  day  so  tempting.  She  had  walked 
far  beyond  the  railway  station,  watching  the  little  red 
shoots  upon  the  trees  showing  faint  traces  of  green.  She 
had  welcomed  the  gusts  of  sweet  Spring  wind  which  came 
sweeping  gently  through  the  still-black  and  hardly 
speckled  hedges  beside  the  soft  road.  And  as  she  walked, 
catching  glimpses  of  delicious  white  clouds  driving  be- 
low a  blue  sky,  she  had  been  thinking  of  Louis  and  of 
the  approaching  concert,  and  the  beautiful  weather,  and 
she  was  so  happy  that  her  spirits  were  all  on  tiptoe  with 
a  kind  of  suppressed  excitement.  It  was  then  that  she 
saw  upon  the  roadway,  corning  towards  her,  a  poor  old 


BELOW  THE  SURFACE  227 

woman  who  lived  two  miles  down  this  road,  in  a  small 
lonely  cottage  that  stood  by  itself.  This  old  woman  did 
washing  for  a  number  of  people  in  Beckwith,  and  she 
called  for  it  and  brought  it  back  each  week  on  a  little 
four-wheeled  barrow  about  the  size  of  a  perambulator. 
On  this  day  she  was  carrying  the  washing  in  a  great  bas- 
ket under  her  arm,  and  panting  as  she  walked ;  changing 
the  basket  from  one  arm  to  the  other,  and  setting  it  down 
in  the  roadway  while  she  rested.  She  was  a  thin,  bent 
old  woman,  and  she  was  poorly  dressed,  with  a  big  straw 
hat  and  brown  bodice  and  skirt  and  a  red  kerchief.  Doro- 
thy, seeing  her  thus,  hurried  forward. 

"Why,  where's  your  wheelbarrow  ?"  she  asked.  "You 
can't  carry  that  washing!" 

"It's  broke,  miss.  The  wheel's  all  bended  in  two  by  a 
motor,"  said  the  old  woman,  looking  out  from  her  russet 
face  like  an  old  gipsy. 

"And  didn't  they  stop?  The  wretches!"  cried  Doro- 
thy. "How  shameful !  What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
getting  it  mended?" 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  Mr.  Conrad,  the  wheelwright,  this 
afternoon,"  she  said.  "I'll  ask  him  if  he  can  mend  it  for 
me.  But  I  can't  nohow  wheel  it,  miss;  for  the  wheel's 
all  bended  double  in  two  and  it's  too  stiff  to  move,  it  is. 
It's  too  stiff  to  move.  But  the  washing's  got  to  be  took 
home,  and  so  I'm  taking  it.  .  .  ."  She  panted  once  or 
twice ;  and  Dorothy  saw  the  perspiration  round  her  eyes, 
in  the  little  creases  there,  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
humid  with  tiredness. 

"But  you  mustn't  carry  it.  It's  too  heavy  for  you. 
I'll  carry  it,"  Dorothy  began  impetuously. 

"Oh  no,  miss!"  The  old  woman  seized  the  basket. 
Dorothy  caught  her  arm. 

"Please!"  she  cried. 


228  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

So  each  took  a  handle,  and  they  walked  with  the 
ket  between  them ;  while  the  old  woman  talked  about  her 
vast  age  and  her  rheumatism  and  about  what  people  had 
been  saying  to  her  for  the  last  fifty  years.  And  it  was 
while  they  were  walking  thus  that  Mrs.  Vechantor,  gently 
rambling  along  the  road,  with  the  help  of  a  stick,  came 
upon  them. 

v 

Upon  this  afternoon  Mrs.  Vechantor,  seeing  Dorothy 
smiling  to  the  old  woman,  unconscious  of  observation, 
felt  differently  from  that  other  day.  She  stood  still  as 
they  approached,  and  Dorothy  became  grave,  for  she 
knew  that  this  was  Louis's  mother,  and  a  shudder  of 
realisation  ran  through  her.  It  was  her  first  instant  of 
real  dread.  This  was  Louis's  mother,  and  Louis  was 
silent.  All  her  thoughts  of  him  were  a  girl's  dreams.  This 
was  the  reality.  His  mother,  however  kind,  had  scorned 
her  before. 

She  looked  again  at  Mrs.  Vechantor,  who  stood  quite 
still  by  the  side  of  the  road. 

"How  d'you  do?"  said  Mrs.  Vechantor.  "Why, 
Agatha;  where's  your  little  cart?" 

The  explanation  began  again.  Dorothy  stood,  looking 
critically  from  face  to  face.  From  the  brown,  wrinkled 
face  of  Agatha  to  the  pale  and  beautiful  face  of  Louis's 
mother.  She  had  answered  in  surprise  Mrs.  Vechantor's 
first  greeting;  but  as  Agatha's  narrative  proceeded  she 
became  shy  and  restless,  ashamed  to  be  standing  there 
listening  to  the  rigmarole  for  the  second  time.  Then  she 
heard  herself  referred  to  as  "this  young  lady."  This 
young  lady  had  kindly  helped  to  carry  the  basket  from 
the  crossroads.  .  .  .  Dorothy  turned  her  clear  eyes  upon 
Mrs.  Vechantor,  and  met  a  glance  of  slow  scrutiny,  not 
kind,  not  unkind;  but  thoughtful — almost,  it  seemed  to 


BELOW  THE  SURFACE  229 

her,  pathetic.  The  basket  was  lifted  again.  They  were 
proceeding  upon  their  way.  Dorothy  had  smiled  slightly, 
almost  coldly  at  Mrs.  Vechantor,  and  was  glad  to  have 
left  her  behind;  when  suddenly  she  heard  her  name 
spoken. 

"Miss  Vechantor  .  .  ." 

Ah,  then  Louis's  mother  knew  her!  The  basket  was 
set  down,  and  Dorothy  turned  back  along  the  road. 

"Did  you  call  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Vechantor  drew  a  long  breath.  To  Dorothy's 
surprise  she  faltered : 

"I'm  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  ask  you  something.  .  .  .  I'm 
Louis's  mother.  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  Dorothy  said,  almost  accusingly  But  Mrs. 
Vechantor  was  clearly  agitated,  not  at  all  the  cold  gentle- 
woman of  Beckwith  society.  She  could  not  speak  for  an 
instant. 

"My  boy  .  .  ."  she  said,  in  a  funny  husky  voice.  "Can 
you  tell  me  .  .  .  Do  you  know  if  he  is  well?" 

"Louis?"  Dorothy  said.  "Aren't  you  hearing  from 
him?"  Her  face  blanched.  "Oh  .  .  .  He  hasn't  been 
to  see  us,  or  written.  I've  been  waiting  and  waiting  .  .  ." 

Horrorstruck,  she  gazed  at  Mrs.  Vechantor.  Both  were 
filled  with  apprehensiveness. 

"I've  heard  nothing  .  .  ."  said  Louis's  mother. 

"Oh,  he's  ill!"  cried  Dorothy  sharply,  with  such  fear 
and  pain  that  Mrs.  Vechantor's  heart  jerked  and  her 
breath  came  quickly. 

"You  know?"  she  asked. 

"No:  I  feel  it!"  Dorothy  said.  "Oh,  what  shall  we 
do;  what  shall  we  do!" 

The  old  woman  was  still  standing  by  her  clothes-bas- 
ket some  distance  up  the  road,  while  Mrs.  Vechantor  and 
Dorothy,  linked  by  their  loving  dread,  faced  each  other 
in  this  new  sympathetic  alliance. 


CHAPTER  XVI:  THE  CONCERT 


ONLY  a  few  days  after  that  memorable  afternoon, 
when  Dorothy  and  Mrs.  Vechantor,  by  a  common 
impulse,  had  tightly  held  each  other's  hands  for  an  in- 
stant in  parting,  the  concert  took  place  in  Beckwith.  For 
Dorothy  all  interest  in  this  event  had  lapsed.  The  ex- 
citement, even  the  fear,  had  died  down.  Her  cheerful- 
ness, now  that  she  had  this  conviction  of  Louis's  illness, 
had  given  way  to  heartache.  The  feeling  of  powerless- 
ness,  of  being  trapped,  grew  upon  her  whenever  she 
thought  of  the  impossibility  of  finding  Louis.  Letters 
had  now  been  returned  through  the  post  office :  his  where- 
abouts were  unknown.  Useless  to  search  for  him  in 
London.  She  was  passionately  helpless.  Yet  her  days 
had  to  be  spent  in  customary  tasks,  and  she  was  forced 
to  hide  her  dejection  in  case  that  should  add  to  the  con- 
tinued difficulties  of  her  home.  She  practised  her  music 
mechanically,  knowing  that  she  was  giving  it  no  attention. 
For  her  the  birds  had  become  mute,  and  the  heavens 
dark.  No  more  was  it  worth  while  to  be  friendly  to  the 
unfriendly  Beckwithians.  It  was  too  great  an  effort, 
when  her  heart  was  so  sore. 

But  the  evening  of  the  concert  came;  and  she  and  Mrs. 
William  walked  to  the  Church  Rooms  together,  seeing 
with  rather  subdued  cynical  pleasure  the  troops  of  other 
people  ambling  in  the  same  direction.  The  Church  Rooms 
were  very  near  the  common.  They  were  very  plain  and 

230 


THE  CONCERT  231 

bare,  lined  with  straight  slips  of  varnished  wood  and 
lighted  by  yellowed  bulbs  of  electric  light.  A  low  plat- 
form at  the  farther  end  was  reached  from  the  floor  of  the 
hall  by  a  few  steps,  and  the  piano  stood  upon  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  platform.  A  few  potted  evergreens  and 
flowers  had  been  lent  by  one  or  two  of  those  churchpeo- 
pie  who  had  greenhouses;  and  the  green  curtains,  which 
for  children's  entertainments  were  unsteadily  hitched 
across  a  sort  of  clothes  line,  had  been  drawn  far  to  the 
left  and  right  of  these  flowers.  The  platform  was  bare, 
covered  with  a  faded  carpet  Sometimes,  on  less  im- 
portant occasions,  the  performers  occupied  the  first  row 
of  seats :  to-night  they  were  being  all  accommodated  in  a 
real  "green  room"  to  the  left  of  the  platform,  the  pas- 
sage from  this  room  being  concealed  from  the  audience 
by  an  extension  of  the  platform-curtains.  It  was  to  this 
room,  accordingly,  that  Dorothy  was  taken,  while  her 
mother  was  seated  in  the  middle  of  the  audience,  obscure 
and  anxious  for  her  daughter's  welfare.  And  as  Doro- 
thy was  among  the  first  arrivals  she  was  enabled  to  find 
a  retired  seat  in  the  room  from  which  to  observe  those 
who  came  after.  The  whole  place  had  a  stuffy  or  a 
mouldy  air — she  could  not  tell  which — as  though  no  outer 
breezes  ever  reached  it  and  as  though  the  shallow  founda- 
tions of  the  building  left  enough  room  below  the  flooring 
for  the  growth  of  rank  weeds  and  unpleasant  herbage. 
Dorothy's  brows  were  lifted  in  a  whimsical  disgust. 
Other  things  were  bad  enough ;  but  this  graveyard  atmos- 
phere told  immediately  upon  the  spirits.  Her  heart  sank, 
a  leaden  heart  that  chilled  her  body  and  made  her  shiver 
a  little.  In  a  perfect  fright  she  looked  wildly  around, 
her  teeth  slightly  chattering.  From  nowhere  in  this  dis- 
mal room  came  a  distressing  draught,  like  the  breath  of 
the  dead,  rising  and  choking  her.  The  words  of  her 
songs  rushed  away,  forgotten;  the  thought  of  facing  a 


232  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

crowd  and  singing  such  words  brought  warmth  to  her 
cheeks  and  again  made  her  shiver.  It  seemed  impossible 
for  her  to  keep  still.  She  had  a  horrible  sense  that  noth- 
ing was  worth  while,  that  everything  was  equally  and 
lamentably  indifferent  to  her.  She  did  not  care  if  she 
never  sang,  if  the  concert  were  a  fiasco.  All  she  wanted 
was  to  go  home,  to  have  done  with  it.  To  make  an  end. 
When  she  thought  of  Louis  a  long  shuddering  sigh 
caught  her  and  made  her  press  together  two  unfeeling 
hands.  She  was  stupefied. 


11 

And  then  other  people  came  into  the  room.  Little 
Irene  Corntoft  came  first,  with  a  long  stupid-looking 
leather  case  and  a  roll  of  music  for  her  accompanist.  She 
was  not  a  prepossessing  child,  and  she  carried  herself 
with  an  appearance  of  conceit  that  alienated  Dorothy. 
She  shrank  deeper  into  her  corner.  And  then  came 
Adela  and  Veronica  Hughes — both  fair,  both  chillingly 
ready  to  ignore  Dorothy  for  the  whole  evening.  Their 
coming  did  not  improve  the  general  festivity  of  this  char- 
nel-house. Dorothy  watched  them  with  unhesitating  eyes, 
noticing  their  self -consciousness,  their  raised  and  drawl- 
ing voices,  the  little  half -glances  that  they  could  not  help 
casting  at  her,  in  spite  of  their  studied  aloofness.  To 
Dorothy  this  was  all  pitiable.  It  was  like  the  stiltedness 
of  those  dull  English  people  who  will  not  speak  until  they 
have  been  three  times  formally  introduced.  Only  when 
Veronica  tried  vainly  to  fasten  long  white  gloves,  while 
Adela  was  otherwise  engaged,  did  Dorothy  slip  forward 
and  perform  the  task.  And  when  Veronica  flinched  and 
half-withdrew  Dorothy  thought  suddenly:  "She  hates 
me.  It's  not  only  what  I  am:  it's  myself."  She  could 


THE  CONCERT  233 

nave  told  that  anywhere,  for  she  saw  that  Veronica  really 
recoiled,  from  a  physical  distaste,  and  not  from  any  im- 
pulse of  pride.  She  would  have  said  that  Veronica  had 
shuddered;  and  as  she  thought  that  she  caught  sight  of 
Veronica's  eyes,  in  which  she  read  all  that  active  dislike 
that  she  had  guessed  from  the  earlier  recoil. 

"Yes,  but  why?"  Dorothy  demanded  of  herself.  "What 
have  I  ever  done  to  her?" 

iii 

It  was  too  much  to  decide  in  a  moment.  The  sense 
only  made  her  more  wretched,  for  her  sensitive  heart  was 
easily  wounded  and  a  slight  rankled  long  in  her  bosom. 
She  was  conscious  of  no  offence,  save  the  one  of  coming 
to  Beckwith.  It  was  not  as  though  she  had  sought 
Veronica,  or  fawned  upon  her;  then,  indeed,  she  could 
have  understood  a  withdrawal,  for  she  herself  so  with- 
drew as  if  by  instinct,  and  not  through  coquetry,  from 
any  form  of  personal  pursuit.  Instead  of  pressing  for- 
ward from  any  base  wish,  she  had  merely  wished  to  be 
of  use,  to  be  commonly  friendly.  That  was  her  nature. 
Yet  she  was  rebuffed,  as  if  she  had  been  presumptuous. 
A  little  dry  smile  curved  her  lips,  and  her  heart  began 
to  beat  faster,  as  she  went  back  to  her  corner. 

"Nasty  girl!"  thought  Dorothy,  puzzled.  "Why?"  It 
was  unanswerable.  She  had  no  clue. 

Mrs.  Corntoft  bustled  back  into  the  room,  exclaiming 
at  Irene's  uncovered  neck.  She  was  an  ugly,  impertinent 
woman,  with  a  face  like  a  peony,  as  though  she  suffered 
from  an  apoplectic  affection. 

"The  idea!"  she  cried.  "The  idea!  To  stand  in  this 
cold  without  your  fur !  My  precious !" 

"Silly  woman!"  thought  Dorothy.  "Silly  woman! 
How  overdone!" 


234  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

There  was  a  spare-looking  accompanist,  a  Miss  Sim- 
mons, waiting  with  pathetic  affability,  ready  to  coax  any 
refrain  from  the  piano  half-a-bar  behind  the  vocalist, 
ready  to  struggle  through  any  song  to  the  bitter  end,  a 
little  slow,  one  of  those  pianists  who  inevitably  miss  the 
exact  moment  for  an  emphatic  chord.  She  kept  a  thin 
shawl  over  her  head,  as  if  she  were  at  the  Opera,  waiting 
for  her  hired  brougham.  There  was  a  middle-aged  male 
singer,  who  was  to  perform  the  Prologue  from  "Pagli- 
acci"  and  a  horrible  song-drama  called  'The  Raft."  It 
was  for  him  that  Miss  Simmons  was  there;  it  was  his 
doom  that  lay  in  the  tips  of  her  stumbling  fingers.  The 
room  became  full  of  such  people,  including  Mrs.  Toppett, 
fragile  and  excited  about  nothing,  striving  to  be  heard 
above  the  general  talk,  and  screaming  in  her  effort.  The 
room  was  overcrowded.  Its  mournful  staleness  reached 
a  point  of  close  suffocation. 

Outside  could  be  heard  the  movement  of  feet,  the 
squeaking  of  the  legs  of  chairs.  Laughter,  and  a  loud 
buzz,  and  already  some  impatient  stamping  from  the 
back  seats  .  .  .  Dorothy  held  her  hands  close  together, 
her  face  pale,  her  eyes  a  glowing  black.  Distress  was 
visible  in  her  whole  demeanour,  but  the  others  continued 
to  ignore  her.  Oh,  she  thought,  if  only  it  were  all  over ! 
How  blessed  to  be  home  again,  away  from  these  unpleas- 
ant people,  alone  with  her  grief.  Louis!  Louis! 

A  whistle  arose  from  the  hall,  a  long  whistle  made  with 
two  fingers  in  the  mouth.  It  was  repeated.  A  great 
stamping  began,  and  a  tick-tock  clapping,  to  show  that 
the  audience  was  impatient.  A  flurry  ran  through  all 
those  in  the  green-room.  Mrs.  Toppett  moved  hither  and 
thither  in  a  timid  frenzy.  It  was  painful,  as  though  they 
had  no  leader,  as  though  suddenly  they  might  all,  through 
panic,  run  away  and  leave  Dorothy  alone.  She  felt  a 
sense  of  unreality  growing  upon  her:  a  faintness  stole 


THE  CONCERT  235 

into  her  consciousness.  Her  face  seemed  to  be  clamped 
with  iron,  and  her  lips  trembled.  If  only  something  could 
be  done!  The  stamping,  the  whistling,  the  clapping, 
began  again.  It  was  unbearable!  Adela  whisked  a 
piece  of  music  from  her  pile  and  moved  quickly  to  the 
door.  Then  she  dawdled — Dorothy  saw  her  quick  change 
from  haste  to  a  sort  of  public  dawdle.  The  whistling 
ceased,  and  the  stamping;  the  tick-tock  clapping  gave 
place  to  genuine  applause.  Then  silence  ...  a  grating 
chair,  a  cough.  At  last  a  tinkle. 

"Oh  Golly!"  muttered  Dorothy.  "What  a  piano!" 
She  rubbed  her  hands  with  her  handkerchief. 

"Miss  Vechantor  .  .  .  Oh,  there  you  are !"  cried  Mrs. 
Toppett,  darting  towards  her.  They  all  stared  curiously 
at  Dorothy.  "You're  number  two.  Miss  Simmons  .  .  ." 

The  spare-looking  accompanist  came  forward,  hugging 
her  shawl.  At  the  touch  of  her  bony  hand  Dorothy  knew 
that  this  woman,  a  teacher  of  the  pianoforte  to  young 
children,  would  be  a  melancholy  accompanist,  in  spite  of 
every  variety  of  goodwill. 

"Oh  please!"  she  beseechingly  cried.  "May  I  play  my 
own  accompaniment?  I'm  used  to  doing  it.  I'd  ever 
so  much  rather !" 

"It  means  moving  the  piano !"  objected  the  male  singer. 

They  all  looked  condemningly  at  Dorothy,  whose 
cheeks  grew  hot. 

"Please!"  she  begged.  Glancing  up,  she  confronted  a 
hostile  Veronica,  whose  lip  was  curled  with  contempt 
that  was  half  jealousy.  It  made  Dorothy  firm :  they  saw 
the  determination  mark  her  new  expression,  and  gave 
way,  frowning.  From  somewhere  across  the  room,  ap- 
parently in  answer  to  a  whispered  inquiry,  came  the  sound 
of  a  hushed  voice  that  made  Dorothy  vehemently  defiant. 

"Grocer's  daughter  .  .  ."  were  the  words  she  heard, 
that  made  her  suddenly  like  a  queen  among  them  all. 


236  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


IV 

During  the  whole  of  the  tinkling  prelude,  played  by 
Adela  with  a  feverish  speed  that  indicated  a  nervous 
bravado  as  well  as  a  contempt  for  the  audience.  Dorothy's 
heart  grew  colder  and  colder,  until  it  seemed  like  water 
within  her  breast.  Then  came  mild  applause  and  a  pain- 
.ful  silence,  long  before  Adela  had  reached  the  harbour  of 
the  dressing-room.  That  silence,  so  expected,  but  so 
profound,  affected  all  those  who  waited.  It  was  as  if 
their  teeth  chattered.  Surely  with  all  their  faults  they 
were  to  be  pitied  for  the  nervousness  which  assails  all 
who  take  part  in  amateur  entertainments.  They  were 
nerveless,  crushed  under  the  weight  of  their  good  inten- 
tions and  the  rewards  attending  them.  In  such  a  panic 
nobody  had  sufficient  energy  to  do  anything  but  look 
angrily  at  Dorothy.  She,  just  as  Adela  had  done,  looked 
wildly  round  for  music,  remembered  that  she  had  brought 
none,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  and  on  to  the  platform. 
There  was  no  applause — only  a  whispering,  due  to  her 
identity.  Then  one  pair  of  hands  clapped,  and  there  was 
a  scattering  attempt  at  welcome.  Timidly  Dorothy 
walked  forward.  To  her  dismay  the  position  of  the  piano 
had  not  been  altered;  it  stood  so  that  she  who  sat  before 
it  had  her  back  to  the  audience. 

What  was  to  be  done?  Dorothy  glanced  back.  Her 
fellow-performers  had  gathered  by  common  impulse  at 
the  door  of  the  dressing-room.  Mrs.  Toppett  made  a 
wild  gesture.  No  help  was  forthcoming.  An  anger 
caught  Dorothy  and  mounted  to  her  brain.  With  an 
energy  altogether  out  of  the  usual  she  went  to  the  piano, 
seized  it  below  the  keyboard  and  by  the  little  hand-hole 
in  the  back,  and  tugged  with  all  her  might.  It  moved. 
It  wheeled  upon  its  casters.  It  obeyed  her  touch  as  if  it 


THE  CONCERT  237 

had  been  some  mustang  that  a  fine  hand  had  tamed.  In 
an  instant,  with  another  tug,  Dorothy  had  brought  the 
piano  round  so  that  when  she  sat  she  would  be  half  turned 
to  the  audience.  A  tumultuous  applause,  won  by  her  de- 
termination and  her  prowess,  rang  out  from  the  farther 
half  of  the  hall  even  while  the  gentry  in  the  front  rows 
drew  up  their  eyebrows  and  grimaced  expressively  at 
such  an  unmaidenly  display  of  muscle.  The  applause  was 
as  spontaneous  as  the  wonderment.  In  a  single  instant 
Dorothy  had  become  the  heroine  of  the  evening.  It 
would  not  have  mattered  what  she  sang.  She  had  shown 
pluck,  and  the  more  common  part  of  Beckwith  had  re- 
sponded with  its  appreciation.  When  she  sang  "Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  without  any  of  those  trills  which  decayed 
vocalists  are  in  the  habit  of  interpolating,  the  more  unedu- 
cated among  those  present,  who  loved  their  tawdry  homes 
with  passion,  lost  their  heads.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to 
them  to  see  this  little  girl  singing  apparently  with  her 
whole  heart  the  song  they  loved  the  best  of  all.  They 
cheered  and  roared  and  stamped  and  whistled.  The 
concert  was  a  success;  for  the  second  person  upon  the 
programme  to  be  encored  with  fury  was  a  new  experi- 
ence in  Beckwith.  That  her  success  should  have  been 
due  to  a  piece  of  simple  angry  vigour  made  no  difference 
to  the  audience.  It  was  enough  that  they  could  have 
listened  to  Dorothy  for  half-an-hour  on  end  without 
tiring.  It  was  a  great  success;  and  Veronica  Hughes, 
although  she  scraped  through  to  a  second  song  by  means 
of  extreme  promptitude  in  return  to  the  platform,  must 
have  realised  that  she  was  not  prime  favourite  that  eve- 
ning. 

What  a  lucky  accident  that  nobody  should  have  moved 
the  piano! 


SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


With  her  songs  given  at  the  opening  of  the  second  part 
of  the  programme,  Dorothy  was  free  to  rest  or  to  leave 
the  hall.  Mrs.  Toppett  was  all  smiles  and  gratitude  to 
her,  pressing  tepid  coffee  and  cake  in  which  stalks  were 
as  common  as  currants ;  but  there  had  been  no  relenting 
on  the  part  of  the  Hughes  girls,  who  continued  bleakly  to 
regard  the  heroine.  And  then  Miss  Lampe  came  into  the 
dressing-room.  She  came  primed  and  bursting  with 
news. 

"Such  a  charming  concert.  So  nice.  Everything  so 
beautifully  arranged,  dear  Mrs.  Toppett.  Quite  the 
nicest  .  .  ."  That  was  her  prelude.  There  followed  her 
item.  "And  just  fancy!  Looking  round  just  now,  I 
stood  up  in  my  place  and  saw  everybody.  And  who 
d'you  think  was  at  the  back  of  the  hall  .  .  .  so  thin  and 
ill-looking  ...  I  shall  never  forget  it.  ...  Why,  Louis 
Vechantor!" 

"Louis!"  Dorothy's  heart  leapt.  It  felt  as  though 
all  the  blood  in  her  body  had  risen  to  her  flaming  cheeks 
at  that  word.  She  moved  forward,  involuntarily. 

"He's  gone !"  cried  Miss  Lampe.  "He  was  going  out 
when  I  saw  him.  So  strange  ..." 

Her  bright,  malicious  eyes  travelled  from  one  to  the 
other,  twinkling  and  glistening  with  triumph  at  her  sen- 
sation. Dorothy,  suddenly  aware  of  their  insight,  delib- 
erately dropped  upon  the  floor  a  sheet  of  music  at  which 
she  had  been  looking;  but  it  was  not  at  her  that  Miss 
Lampe  had  directed  the  force  of  her  challenge.  It  was 
at  Veronica.  Very  slowly  Dorothy  also  found  herself 
staring  at  Veronica,  who  stood  with  the  blood  flushing  and 
leaving  her  face  each  instant,  her  eyes  desperate,  her 
mouth  uncontrollably  trembling. 


THE  CONCERT  239 

Dorothy's  heart  stood  still,  and  then  began  pounding. 
Something  seemed  to  shut  tightly  within  her,  in  time  to 
prevent  a  scream  from  coming  to  her  lips.  She  was 
shaken  by  a  dreadful  certainty.  So  this — this,  after  all, 
was  the  secret  of  that  hostility  which  hitherto  had  pained 
her.  The  shrinking  girl  across  the  room,  carrying  the 
wounds  of  her  heart  plainly  written  in  her  agonised  ap- 
pearance, was  in  love  with  Louis. 

"She's  in  love  with  him !"  whispered  Dorothy  sharply, 
unable  to  keep  the  thought  from  escaping  her  lips.  In 
that  moment  she  knew  despair. 


CHAPTER  XVII:  SEARCH 


THAT  moment  of  stupefied  despair  contracted  her 
heart.  She  had  no  longer  any  hope  in  life.  All  her 
buoyancy,  all  her  enthusiasm,  built  so  rapidly  of 
gossamer,  vanished  in  a  dream.  She  was  alone  in  the 
darkness,  a  faint  roaring  in  her  ears,  magically  remote  and 
unhappy,  a  little  girl  longing  only  for  the  shelter  of  her 
mother's  arms.  Nothing  was  there  to  support  her  cour- 
age. Around  her  were  aliens,  enemies.  Only  she,  with 
agony  at  her  heart,  stood  staring  across  the  room  at  this 
equally  unhappy  rival  for  the  love  of  the  only  man  who 
could  solace  her  spirit.  He  was  lost,  as  inevitably  as  if 
the  word  of  doom  had  been  uttered.  Never  in  her  life 
had  Dorothy  been  so  bitterly  moved. 

"Dear  me!"  tittered  Miss  Lampe,  greedily  devouring 
Veronica's  too  patent  emotion.  "Dear  Vera's  been  .  .  . 
over-excited.  ...  By  the  success,  of  course.  ...  By 
the  success.  .  .  ." 

Such  glee,  such  malicious  glee,  was  insufferable.  While 
Veronica  shrank  farther  back,  white  now  as  marble,  ab- 
ject before  this  comment  upon  her  self -betrayal,  Dorothy 
felt  her  colour  mount.  She  was  burning  and  blazing 
with  indignation.  Impossible  to  restrain  herself.  Love, 
pride,  pity,  jealousy — all  these  fighting  excitements,  like 
flames  upon  her  valiant  heart — rose  tumultuously.  She 
could  not  stand  still.  Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  be- 
yond all  control,  she  took  a  sudden  step  forward,  facing 

240 


SEARCH  241 

Miss  Lampe,  carried  to  a  height  of  anger  that  she  had 
never  before  known. 

"You  beast !"  she  cried,  in  a  loud,  sobbing  voice.  "You 
venomous  beast  of  a  woman!" 

"Oh  ...  oh  ..."  screamed  everybody.  Miss  Lampe 
withered  under  her  rage. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  in  a  state  of  terror.  Then,  with  a 
kind  of  frenzy,  she  went  on,  wildly  terrified,  but  still  in- 
exhaustibly malicious.  "You  too!"  A  nervous  tittering 
seized  her,  not  at  all  willing  or  deliberate;  but  only 
the  over-drawn  excitement  of  her  shocked  sensations. 
"He-he-he!" 

She  ran  a  few  paces  away,  physically  afraid  of  Doro- 
thy. Veronica  clung  to  Adela,  gulping  with  dry  sobs, 
quite  abandoned  to  the  hysteria  of  the  moment.  The 
others  were  all  in  movement,  trembling  and  pale,  their 
hands  jerking  as  if  with  some  dreadful  malady.  And 
Dorothy  pushed  past  them  all,  to  the  door  of  the  room, 
not  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  faltering  and  stumbling 
in  her  hurried  progress.  Her  head  was  down,  her  fists 
clenched,  her  heart  throbbing.  .  .  Every  thought  had 
given  way  in  her  to  indignation  and  jealousy  and  bound- 
less hatred. 

ii 

In  face  of  the  audience  she  halted,  not  sobered,  but 
deeply  shocked  at  the  confrontation.  It  so  pointed  the 
contrast  between  her  heightened  feelings  and  the  strange 
setting  for  so  bizarre  a  scene.  Her  anger  did  not  so  much 
evaporate  as  struggle  with  another  and  now  overmaster- 
ing impulse.  She  felt  it  an  absolute  necessity  to  find 
Louis,  to  reach  him  and  learn  instantly  of  his  life,  his 
well-being.  To  think  that  he  had  been  there,  that  he  had 
been  present  all  the  evening,  without  letting  her  know, 
without  her  knowing  instinctively  that  he  was  near !  Oh, 


242  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

how  strange  it  was  of  him,  of  her!  But  he  was  gone, 
they  had  said.  That  woman  had  said  he  had  been  going 
when  she  saw  him.  But  perhaps  she  had  lied!  There 
was  no  truth  in  her — only  stupid  malice,  the  malice  of  the 
good  and  the  malignant ! 

Quickly,  ignoring  her  mother,  who  half  rose  at  so 
hurried  an  exit,  in  spite  of  the  singer  on  the  platform, 
Dorothy  made  for  the  back  of  the  hall.  For  a  moment 
she  stood,  scanning  the  unknown  faces  near  her,  turned 
now  to  observe  her  movements.  Louis  was  not  there. 
Driven  by  necessity,  she  passed  from  the  hall  into  the 
dark  night.  A  fine  rain  was  falling.  Clouds  covered  the 
moon.  All  was  black  and  forbidding.  A  breeze  drifted 
across  the  common,  rustling  the  bare  branches  of  the 
trees  by  its  edge.  Everything  was  sodden  with  moisture. 
Breathlessly,  sobbing  faintly,  Dorothy  went  running  on 
beside  the  green.  No  conscious  purpose  had  formed  in 
her  mind :  her  feet  slipped  in  the  mud  of  the  road.  She 
ran,  sometimes  splashing  in  water,  sometimes  treading 
firmly  upon  gravel,  the  wet  earth  clinging  to  her  light 
shoes,  soaking  through  to  her  stockings,  to  her  feet. 
Mud  splashed  above  her  ankles,  soiling  her  skirt  and  her 
petticoat  She  had  headed  for  the  railway  station.  Down 
the  long  curling  road  she  went,  never  stopping,  borne  by 
the  impetuous  desire  of  her  heart. 

With  the  station  reached,  dark  against  the  heavy  sky, 
with  blurred  lamps  glistening  out  through  the  rain,  and 
thin  curving  metals,  splashed  also  with  rain,  throwing 
back  the  reflection  of  the  station's  many  lights,  Dorothy 
halted,  panting.  Her  steps  echoed  upon  the  boards  of 
the  booking  office,  pattering  as  the  wet  soles  of  her  shoes 
clung  at  each  step  to  the  drier  wood.  Then  up  the  steel- 
shod  stairs  to  the  platform.  All  was  dark  except  for 
the  lamps,  shining  desolately  amid  the  blackness.  Empty, 
bare,  cold,  the  station  stood  as  if  deserted.  A  gusty  wind 


SEARCH  243 

came  plucking  her  dress  and  her  dishevelled  hair.  She 
ran  from  end  to  end  of  the  platform,  searching  the 
gloom,  crying  in  a  low  voice  at  every  few  steps  the 
beloved  name.  Louis  was  not  there.  She  was  alone 
upon  the  station;  she  was  bereft  of  hope.  Her  impulse 
had  betrayed  her. 

With  chill  at  her  heart  Dorothy  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  the  platform,  crying.  She  was  like  a  child  lost  in  the 
darkness  of  an  unfamiliar  country.  What  should  she  do? 
She  had  lost  him — for  that  night, — for  ever!  What 
should  she  do?  What  was  there  that  she  could  do? 

"Oh,  Louis!  Louis!"  she  cried  to  the  wind  and  the 
rain. 

iii 

Had  he  been  in  the  hall  all  the  time  ?  Had  she  missed 
him  there?  No,  no!  He  had  not  been  there;  his  face 
would  have  stood  out  from  that  white  mist  as  her  own 
name  would  have  stood  among  a  crowd  of  names.  She 
was  quite  confident  of  that.  Numbed  as  she  was,  Dorothy 
had  no  doubt  of  that.  He  had  left  the  hall.  Whither 
had  he  gone?  Whither?  Perhaps — home;  back  to  the 
shop  ?  Never !  He  would  not  have  gone  there ;  if  he  had 
dreamed  of  going  he  would  first  have  come  to  her.  She 
knew  it.  There  was  no  hesitation  at  all.  To  his  own 
home  ?  Ah !  That  was  it !  But  she  must  see  him,  if  only 
for  a  moment.  She  must  go  there.  She  must  satisfy  her- 
self. 

Upon  the  instant  of  having  that  thought,  Dorothy  again 
ran.  She  was  away  from  the  station,  out  into  the  driz- 
zling rain,  with  the  fleetness  of  a  boy  or  a  very  young 
girl,  her  little  figure  suddenly  flashing  under  the  lamps 
and  immediately  lost  in  the  darkness.  The  bare  branches 
caught  her  as  she  ran,  sprinkling  their  burden  of  rain- 
drops at  the  contact.  She  was  unconscious:  only  she 


244  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

ran  on,  her  heart  beating  fast,  her  cheeks  hot  with  the 
exertion;  her  hands  and  face  wet  with  the  rain.  The 
hedges  rose  up  black  and  frightening  around  her;  but 
she  had  no  fear.  She  had  purpose. 

Presently  her  energy  failed,  and  she  was  forced  to 
stop,  her  hands  to  her  throbbing  breast,  her  mouth  dry. 
For  a  few  instants  she  stood  panting,  the  rain  trick- 
ling from  her  cheeks,  from  her  hair,  on  to  her  thin  dress 
and  within  it,  so  that  she  felt  it  straying  upon  her  burn- 
ing neck.  But  still  she  could  not  stay :  her  need  was  too 
imperative.  After  that  forced  rest,  she  hurried  on  once 
more,  no  longer  running,  but  walking  as  fast  as  her 
trembling  knees  would  allow. 

"That  beast!"  she  was  murmuring  to  herself,  among 
the  choking  little  sobs  that  hindered  her  breathing.  "What 
a  beast!  To  say  that  .  .  .  Oh,  but  she  loves  him;  she 
loves  him !"  Nothing  more  could  enter  her  mind.  Only 
Veronica's  face  and  Miss  Lampe's  vindictive  betrayal. 
A  new  horror  of  that  sinister  light  shook  Dorothy,  weak- 
ening her.  There  was  no  love,  no  charity,  among  these 
people.  .  .  .  She  did  not  think  that;  it  was  the  burden 
of  her  aching  heart.  And  the  memory  of  Veronica  so 
crushed  her  that  at  times  she  could  not  walk,  but  was 
forced  to  totter  aside  and  clutch  some  firm  support  by  the 
roadside,  standing  there  in  the  rain,  her  pretty  dress 
spoiled,  her  limbs  aching  and  unsteady.  Then,  on  again, 
cleaving  the  darkness,  blindly  and  sobbingly  directing 
herself  to  the  Vechantors'  home. 


IV 

So  at  last  she  reached  it,  exhausted  beyond  anything 
she  had  ever  been.  She  had  never  been  so  tired,  so  mad 
and  exhausted  with  rapid  motion  and  the  agitation  of  her 
feelings.  She  stumbled  in  at  the  gate,  and  half  fell  as  she 


SEARCH  245 

pressed  against  the  door.  Without  knowledge  she  pulled 
the  bell  so  that  a  great  billowing  of  sound  echoed  through 
and  through  the  passages  of  that  silent  house.  She  was 
without  sensation  while  the  sound  rolled  away,  while 
she  clung  to  the  door  in  exhausted  reaction  from  the  ef- 
fects of  her  frantic  exertion.  And  then,  when  the  door 
was  opened,  she  turned,  all  appeal,  to  Rosemary. 

"Mrs.  Vechantor!"  she  cried.     "Oh,  please!" 

"Oh,  miss !  How  wet  you  are !"  cried  Rosemary,  put- 
ting forth  a  hand  to  stay  her. 

"I  must  see  her!"  Dorothy  shrank  from  the  hand. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  even  now  be  prevented 
from  attaining  her  end. 

"In  the  drawing-room.  But "  Rosemary  was  in- 
capable of  the  quick  thought  that  would  successfully  have 
interposed  her  between  this  strange  visitor  and  her  peace- 
ful mistress. 

So  it  was  that  Dorothy  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
room  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vechantor  sat  together.  Look- 
ing up  they  saw  her  standing  there,  wet  and  muddy,  her 
face  scarlet,  her  hair  so  entirely  soaked  by  the  rain  and 
loosened  by  the  wind  that  it  hung  limply  and  heavily  over 
her  brow.  Her  feet  were  wet,  her  skirt  and  stockings 
soaked  and  thick  with  mud.  Yet  she  was  so  evidently 
distraught  that  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vechantor  rose  im- 
mediately and  came  towards  her.  Mr.  Vechantor  fal- 
tered, recognising  Dorothy  and  embarrassed  both  by  her 
appearance  and  her  identity.  Only  Mrs.  Vechantor,  with 
a  quicker  sense  of  realities,  came  unhesitatingly  and 
took  both  her  hands. 

"My  dear!"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Louis!"  cried  Dorothy.  "He's  not  here.  He's 
not  been  here?" 

She  had  lost  all  her  strength,  and  collapsed  upon  a 
chair,  trembling  and  crying.  The  disappointment  was 


246  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

too  great.  She  could  no  longer  bear  the  dreadful  strain 
of  her  vehement  journey.  She  did  not  faint;  but  she 
lost  for  a  few  instants  all  sense  of  her  surroundings.  All 
she  knew  was  that  her  search  had  been  vain,  that  he  whom 
she  sought  was  not  here,  that  she  was  shamed  and  dis- 
mayed beyond  bearing.  In  such  collapse,  she  began  again 
to  cry,  sitting  there  before  them,  her  sobs  tearing  their 
hearts  and  echoing  faintly  in  the  silent  room. 


CHAPTER  XVIII:  A  NEW  FRIEND 


AGAIN  it  was  Mrs.  Vechantor  who  stepped  for- 
ward. Regardless  of  everything,  she  put  her  arm 
round  Dorothy's  shoulders  and  drew  Dorothy's  head  to 
her  breast. 

"Poor  child !"  she  murmured,  too  wise  to  misread  such 
abandonment,  too  unselfish  to  put  her  own  pain  fore- 
most. She,  a  woman  first,  read  deep  into  the  heart  of 
another  woman,  pity  drowning  all  her  other  emotions. 

Slowly,  Dorothy's  passionate  disappointment  gave  way 
before  such  kindness.  Her  sobs  were  lower,  less  poig- 
nantly heart-rending.  She  moved  her  head  upon  its 
soft  pillow,  drawing  away,  shame  growing  ever  stronger 
as  she  realised  where  she  was.  Staring  eyes  sought  those 
of  Mr.  Vechantor,  eyes  in  which  fear  had  its  dominant 
place.  At  last  she  disengaged  herself  entirely. 

"I'm  so  ashamed,"  she  stammered,  in  a  dreary,  crying 
voice.  "Oh,  I've  spoilt  your  dress.  I've  made  it  all 
wet." 

That  recognition  made  her  look  down,  so  that  she  first 
saw  her  own  dress,  ruined  and  soaked  by  the  unrelenting 
rain.  Unbelievingly  she  looked  from  her  knees  to  her 
shoes,  aghast  at  the  discovery. 

"Never  mind.  Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Vechantor,  in 
a  broken  voice.  "Oh,  my  dear!  As  if  it  mattered!" 

Their  eyes  met,  Dorothy's  afraid  and  shrinking;  Mrs. 
Vechantor's  wholly  candid  with  a  sympathy  that  was 

247 


248  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

true  to  her  nature.  They  had  no  secrets  now.  Dorothy 
began,  very  low,  to  tell  why  she  had  come. 

"He's  been  here?"  interrupted  Mr.  Vechantor,  no 
longer  able  to  keep  silent  and  conceal  his  love  for  Louis. 
"He's  not  ill,  then  ?  Thank  God !  Thank  God  for  that !" 

To  all  of  them  it  was  a  relief  to  find  their  common  joy 
expressed. 

"You  must  go  home  and  go  to  bed  ...  at  once,"  Mrs. 
Vechantor  said.  "Will  you  stay  here?" 

"No,  no!"  cried  Dorothy.  "I  must  go.  I'm  ashamed 
to  be  here." 

Louis's  father  and  mother  exchanged  a  glance.  At 
once,  Mr.  Vechantor  went  out  of  the  room.  He  returned 
in  a  moment  dressed  for  going  out-of-doors,  carrying  for 
Dorothy's  protection  a  hooded  ulster  belonging  to  his 
wife.  She,  meanwhile,  had  kissed  Dorothy's  cheek, 
warmly  pressing  her  hands. 

"Your  mother  will  be  anxious,"  she  said.  "But  if  you'll 
stay  my  husband  will  go  and  tell  her  you're  here." 

"No.  I  must  go.  Oh  .  .  .  you  mustn't  come!"  Doro- 
thy was  horrified  at  the  plan  for  her  escort.  "Please 
.  .  .  please  let  me  go  alone !" 

They  would  not  do  as  she  wished ;  and  they  forced  her 
to  wear  the  ulster. 

"We  must  hurry.  You  mustn't  take  cold!"  Mr.  Ve- 
chantor said,  in  a  moved  voice.  "Come  along  quickly." 
His  hand  was  upon  the  door.  He  stood  there,  an  erect 
old  man,  entirely  forgetful  of  his  position  in  Beckwith. 

"I  shall  come  to-morrow  to  see  how  you  are,"  his  wife 
added.  "Good  night,  my  dear;  and  God  bless  you!" 

In  a  moment  they  were  out  of  the  house,  Mr.  Vechan- 
tor tightly  holding  Dorothy's  arm  and  half  supporting  her 
across  the  common,  back  to  her  own  home.  That  strange 
encounter  was  over.  Dorothy  had  broken  the  barriei. 
It  was  down,  and  it  could  never  again  be  raised. 


A  NEW  FRIEND  249 


11 

There  remained  her  own  family  before  that  night 
was  ended.  While  several  families  in  Beckwith  engaged 
themselves  in  repeated  descriptions  of  the  calamitous 
happening,  for  they  had  been  shaken  to  their  depths  by 
the  scene  in  the  dressing-room ;  while  Miss  Lampe  prayed 
that  forgiveness  should  be  accorded  her  young  de- 
nouncer; Dorothy  was  brought  home  and  the  two  elder 
male  Vechantors  met  for  the  first  time.  Only  for  a  mo- 
ment did  that  greeting  last,  while  Dorothy  was  introduced 
once  more  to  warmth  and  light;  and  then,  with  a  hot 
bath  and  clean  dry  clothes  that  mercifully  enwrapped  her 
and  produced  sleep,Dorothy  was  put  to  bed,  as  if  she  had 
been  a  wayward  child  who  had  run  away  and  had  been 
brought  back  unharmed  to  her  proper  guardians.  The 
escapade  was  ended.  Only  its  consequences  were  to  be 
endured. 

In  the  morning  Dorothy  was  stiff  and  rather  feverish. 
She  could  not  get  up,  but  was  forced  to  lie  in  bed,  her 
little  face  showing  above  the  coverlet  like  a  flower  just 
peeping  at  the  sunshine.  It  was  thus  she  lay  when  her 
mother  first  came  into  the  room,  trying  hard  to  smile 
reassuringly  in  spite  of  the  dread  of  her  girl's  illness. 
Mrs.  William  was  a  good  mother:  she  moved  quietly, 
but  not  with  that  creepingness  that  is  more  irritating  than 
honest  noise.  She  sat  upon  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  looked 
at  her  daughter,  and  felt  her  warm  hand. 

"Have  you  got  a  sore  throat?"  she  asked  abruptly; 
and  made  Dorothy  laugh. 

Dorothy's  mind,  emerging  from  heavy  slumber,  was 
only  beginning  to  revive  the  memories  of  the  previous 
night.  The  sick  shame  which  was  to  come  later  had  not 
yet  pierced  to  her  consciousness.  She  was  still  drowsy 


250  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

and  enervated,  with  too  little  strength  to  bear  the  agita- 
tion of  thought.  Gropingly,  she  felt  in  memory  for  the 
cause  of  her  weariness. 

"Louis?"  she  suddenly  cried,  in  a  voice  the  hoarseness 
of  which  gave  her  mother  fresh  cause  for  her  secret 
anxiety. 

"He  came  here  two  minutes  after  we'd  started  for  the 
concert,"  said  Mrs.  William,  quite  unconscious  of  her 
momentous  information.  "Wasn't  it  a  pity !" 


in 

Dorothy's  eyes  closed.  It  was  too  much!  He  had 
been  to  see  her.  He  had  come  at  last,  and  unkind  acci- 
dent had  provoked  the  rest.  Ah,  that  brought  all  her 
pain  back  with  distressing  vividness.  The  concert,  the 
piano,  the  dressing-room,  Miss  Lampe,  Veronica.  .  .  . 
She  was  shaken  from  head  to  foot  by  the  sense  of  calam- 
ity. If  only  she  had  been  at  home,  had  not  seen  Veron- 
ica, she  would  still  have  been  happy,  and  free  from  the 
intolerable  sense  of  tragedy  that  froze  her  heart.  She 
would  still  have  been  so  happy! 

"He's  been  ill  .  .  ."  she  said,  in  something  hardly 
above  a  whisper.  It  was  not  a  question. 

"Yes,  your  father  says  ...  I  wonder  if  you'd  better 
talk.  .  .  ."  Mrs.  William  was  very  dubious,  afraid  to 
show  her  fear,  and  yet  stirred  by  the  sense  that  Dorothy 
was  ill.  Only  she  could  see  the  flush  upon  her  daughter's 
face  and  hear  the  quick,  unsteady  breathing.  "You  see,*' 
dear,  it's  ...  If  you're  not  feeling  quite  well  .  .  ." 

"No,  mother.  I'm  perfectly  well.  .  .  ."  Dorothy 
moved  her  head  restlessly,  irritated  by  this  strange  hesi- 
tation. "I  must  know  about  it.  Just  tell  me,  dear." 

"He's  been  ill  for  three  weeks;  but  he's  better." 


A  NEW  FRIEND  251 

"How  does  he  look  ?"  It  was  insistent.  "Is  he  coming 
again?" 

Mrs.  William  looked  at  Dorothy  with  a  new  steadiness, 
a  new  baffled  concern. 

"Your  father  didn't  say  ...  I  think  he  said  he  looked 
poorly.  He'll  come  again,  my  dearie.  He'll  come  to- 
night or  to-morrow.  But  you  must  lie  quiet  now,  and 
be  quite  well.  ..." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Dorothy,  in  fretful  annoyance.  "It's 
absurd  to  think  I'm  ill.  I'm  tired.  But  I  want  to  see 
Louis.  Ask  father  if  he's  really  better.  .  .  .  Oh,  mother: 
it  was  so  awful  last  night.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  talk  of  it,  my  dear.  It  only  excites  you.  Tell 
me  later.  Now  I've  got  to  go  and  get  your  Dad  his 
breakfast.  I  mustn't  stay.  I'll  come  and  tell  you  about 
Louis.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  you  could  fancy  an  egg? 
How'd  you  like  a  nice  egg  and  toast?"  She  was  beam- 
ing now,  back  in  the  safety  of  her  own  true  sphere  of 
nursing  and  unselfishness.  Coaxing  Dorothy  with  a 
simple  dish  made  her  feel  that  she  had  her  back  again 
as  a  little  girl,  the  idealised  little  girl  of  memory.  "I'll 
get  your  Dad  to  come  and  tell  you  about  Louis." 

With  a  quick,  gentle  movement  she  smoothed  the 
coverlet  and  put  a  light  hand  upon  Dorothy's  brow.  It 
was  such  a  pleasure  to  see  her  face  full  of  tenderness, 
and  if  the  hand  was  hard  and  roughened  it  was  none  the 
less  as  gently  caressing  as  that  of  one  who  had  never 
worked  with  her  hands.  There  was  deep  understanding 
between  these  two,  confidence  and  love,  which  no  mo- 
mentary concealment  could  ruffle.  Mrs.  William  had 
never  forced  any  recital  from  Dorothy:  she  had  never 
any  need  to  question  the  sagacity  of  her  natural  and  in- 
stinctive trust.  She  was  not  as  intelligent  as  some 
women,  but  she  knew  more. 


SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


IV 


An  hour  later,  Mrs.  Vechantor  came  to  see  Dorothy. 
She  walked  across  the  common  and  was  seen  by  Beckwith 
to  enter  William  Vechantor's  shop.  By  the  afternoon  it 
was  all  over  the  town,  and  the  town  was  agog.  Mrs. 
Vechantor  had  entered  the  shop.  She  had  no  idea  of  the 
effects  of  such  a  humane  visit.  She  had  come  to  see 
Dorothy,  and  was  led  to  her  bedroom  as  if  she  had  been 
an  ordinary  visitor. 

Dorothy,  knowing  that  Mrs.  Vechantor  was  there  be- 
fore she  actually  came  into  the  room,  slipped  deeper 
into  her  bed,  overcome  with  embarrassment.  What  must 
Louis's  mother  think  of  her?  She  had  a  sudden  vision 
of  her  bedraggled  appearance  of  the  previous  night.  She 
saw  none  of  the  beauty  of  it.  She  could  not  tell  that 
even  her  ignorance  of  the  rain  and  mud  had  made  an 
immediate  appeal  to  Mrs.  Vechantor,  so  entirely  inno- 
cent had  been  the  devotion  shown  by  such  freedom  from 
self-consciousness.  All  Dorothy  remembered  was  that  she 
had  broken  upon  the  pair  in  a  dishevelled  state,  hyster- 
ical and  contemptible,  lost  to  all  superficial  decency — a 
stranger  without  claim  upon  them,  who  cried  and  sobbed. 
Who  spoilt  Mrs.  Vechantor's  dress !  Even  her  shoulders 
burned,  so  deep  was  her  shame.  And  when  Louis's 
mother  sat  beside  the  bed,  and  in  her  gentle  way  smiled  so 
kindly,  Dorothy  was  lost  in  a  limitless  confusion.  She 
could  not  speak. 

For  a  time  Mrs.  Vechantor  talked  a  little  to  Mrs.  Will- 
iam, asking  after  the  invalid's  health — as  if  it  mattered! 
thought  Dorothy  savagely.  Then,  as  Mrs.  William  re- 
tired, she  turned  to  Dorothy,  no  longer  speaking,  but 
looking  as  though  she  understood  everything  that  was  in 
her  young  cousin's  mind. 


A  NEW  FRIEND  253 

"I  think  it  was  awfully  brave  and  kind  of  you  to  come 
last  night,"  she  began  quietly. 

Dorothy  moved  impatiently,  unable  to  bear  such  kind- 
ness. 

"It  was  selfish,"  she  said,  in  her  hoarse  voice.  "You 
don't  know  how  ashamed  I  am." 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  Mrs.  Vechantor.  "It  wasn't 
at  all  selfish.  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  pretend  that  it 
was.  Most  girls  wouldn't  have  been  brave  enough  to 
do  it." 

"Most  girls  would  have  had  more  ..."  What  could 
Dorothy  say?  She  had  thought  "modesty." 

"Oh,  I  can't  be  bothered  with  most  girls,"  cried  Mrs. 
Vechantor,  with  a  sudden,  unlooked-for  breathlessness. 


"I  can't  tell  you  how  bad  I  feel,"  said  Dorothy.  "As 
if  I  couldn't  face  anybody." 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  what  happened,"  urged  Mrs. 
Vechantor.  "Because,  you  see,  I  don't  know.  I  didn't 
properly  understand  what  you  said.  All  I  know  is  that 
you  came  last  night ;  and  I'm  sure  that  part  of  your  feel- 
ing was  to  reassure  me  about  Louis.  You  may  not 
think  it  was;  but  most  girls  wouldn't  have  taken  the  risk 
of  seeming  peculiar.  So  I  know  that  you  have  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  about.  I  want  you  to  believe  that,  because 
it's  quite  true.  I  know  what  girls  are;  or,  at  least,  I 
think  I  know." 

Dorothy  listened,  feeling  healed  at  such  words,  but 
shaking  her  head  at  the  interpretation. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  pressing  candour.  "You  don't 
understand  what  happened.  .  .  .  She  told  the  story  of 
Miss  Lampe,  and  of  her  journey  to  the  railway  station, 
and  of  her  frantic  run  to  Apple  House.  "You  see,  it  was 
all  selfish,"  she  concluded. 


254  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Mrs.  Vechantor  looked  at  Dorothy  with  a  singular 
expression. 

"It  was  certainly  rather  unconventional,"  she  said  after 
a  pause.  "Perhaps,  socially,  it  was  unwise.  I  think  it 
was." 

"Ah,  you  despise  me!"  cried  Dorothy,  in  agony.  "I 
knew  you  would." 

Mrs.  Vechantor  hesitated. 

"No.  I  don't  despise  you,"  she  answered,  in  a  rather 
thrilling  voice.  "Only  I'm  very  ashamed  of  myself." 

"You!"  Dorothy  was  aghast. 

"Because  it's  all  my  fault,"  Mrs.  Vechantor  claimed. 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "It  makes  me  feel  very 
uncomfortable."  She  sat,  thinking  deeply,  and  then 
sharply  sighed.  Dorothy,  now  that  Mrs.  Vechantor  was 
not  looking  at  her,  was  able  to  watch  her  expression.  Al- 
though deeply  miserable,  because  of  her  own  indiscretion, 
Dorothy  was  not  therefore  bereft  of  the  power  to  sym- 
pathise with  others. 

"I'm  so  awfully  sorry  for  you,"  she  said  impulsively. 
"We've  done  nothing  but  make  you  uncomfortable  ever 
since  we  came  here.  You  know  we've  all  along  been 
sorry  and  ashamed  about  it." 

Mrs.  Vechantor  was  again  deeply  moved. 

"My  dear,"  she  said.  "I  think  you're  a  very  honest 
girl.  I'd  begun  to  think  there  weren't  any  left  in  the 
world.  I  wish  you'd  try  to  think  of  me  as  ...  as  ..  ." 
She  could  not  proceed. 

It  was  Dorothy  who  withdrew  her  hand  from  under 
the  bedclothes  and  patted  Mrs.  Vechantor's  hand.  It 
was  an  uncontrollable  movement,  full  of  pity  that  rose  in  ' 
Dorothy's  swelling  heart.  She  who  had  come  to  sympa- 
thise with  an  eager  girl,  carried  by  affection  into  tempes- 
tuous activity,  found  herself  enveloped  in  the  strong  little 
love  that  lay  hidden  behind  Dorothy's  piquante  pride. 


A  NEW  FRIEND  855 

If  she  smiled,  Mrs.  Vechantor  at  least  had  a  small  sob  in 
her  throat,  partly  from  a  naive  response,  partly  from  a 
painful  amused  sense  of  incongruity. 

"You're  splendid!"  said  Mrs.  Vechantor.  "I'm  sure 
you  are!"  In  her  own  mind  she  gravely  added:  "But 
I'm  so  dreadfully  sorry  for  you.  Because  you've  started 
Beckwith  off  afresh.  I'm  so  dreadfully  sorry  for  you. 
Poor  child!" 

She  had  reason  to  be  sorry  for  Dorothy.  But  Dorothy 
had  a  new  friend. 


CHAPTER  XIX:  PAIN 


DOROTHY  thought:  How  nice  she  is,  and  how 
lucky  I  am  to  find  her  so  nice  when  she  might 
have  been  so  nasty.  Because  it  was  idiotic  of  me  to  go 
running  about  like  that.  I  must  have  been  mad.  Oh, 
I'm  mad  .  .  . 

Nothing  could  equal  her  shame.  Nothing  could  ap- 
pease it.  She  was  swallowed  up  in  shame.  She  saw 
again  the  group  in  the  dressing-room.  She  heard  her  own 
voice  saying :  "You  beast.  .  .  .  You  venomous  beast 
of  a  woman !"  The  memory  made  her  catch  her  breath, 
so  horrible  was  it.  It  was  not  only  the  folly  of  such  vehe- 
mence, although  she  now  saw  how  useless  it  had  been, 
and  how  it  must  have  diverted  attention  from  Veronica 
to  herself.  It  was  rather  the  unavailing  anger  of  it  that 
was  in  retrospect  so  crushing.  How,  by  any  such  means, 
alter  Miss  Lampe,  or  hinder  the  growth  of  her  malicious 
interest  in  any  girl  or  any  girls  who  were  in  love  with 
a  young  man? 

In  love !  Why  should  this  love  be  something  so  secret, 
so  shameworthy  ?  Ah,  but  it  was  rightly  secret.  And  to 
betray  it  was  the  worst  thing  a  girl  could  do,  so  long  as 
human  beings  were  as  inquisitive  and  as  spiteful  as  they 
were.  They  didn't  love ;  they  only  spied  out  weaknesses, 
because  weaknesses  were  the  only  things  they  observed 
with  delight  They  wanted  to  see  and  to  magnify  weak- 
nesses because  the  weaknesses  of  others  in  some  dis- 
gusting way  enhanced  their  own  self-complacency.  Qual- 

256 


PAIN  257 

ities  made  them  envious;  defects  gave  them  a  sense  of 
power.  Miss  Lampe  was  like  that.  Her  life  was  spent 
in  a  venomous  search  for  the  weaknesses  of  others.  It 
was  her  sole  interest.  How  Miss  Lampe  must  be  chuck- 
ling, with  two  girls  exposing  their  secrets  to  her  eye! 
It  must  have  been  a  red-letter  day  in  her  life.  Miss 
Lampe!  Perhaps,  once,  she  was  in  love  herself.  Never  I 
Nobody  could  ever  have  loved  her!  Perhaps  she  had 
found  enough  weaknesses  in  one  man  to  mark  him  down 
for  her  own;  and  then  perhaps,  after  all,  he  had  escaped? 
No :  it  all  lay  deeper  than  that.  Miss  Lampe  must  always 
have  been  ugly  and  envious,  like  Cinderella's  wicked 
sisters.  She  must  have  pried  everywhere  as  a  girl.  All 
her  power  in  Beckwith  was  due  to  her  malicious  concern 
with  the  affairs  of  other  people. 

Poor  wretch!  She  couldn't  be  happy.  She  could 
never  have  known  what  it  was  to  love  anybody  at  all. 
Living  there,  and  souring  for  want  of  love,  she  must  have 
gone  out  to  seek  it,  and  found  everybody  drawing  sus- 
piciously away  from  her;  and  so  she  must  gradually 
have  fallen  into  spite  and  nastiness.  Very  likely  she  had 
wanted  to  get  married.  When  girls  did  not  get  married 
they  became  unhappy,  and  unkind,  and  morbid ;  and  then 
they  watched  other  girls,  other  people,  and  envied  them, 
and  scratched  them.  .  .  .  Dorothy  almost  would  have 
pitied  Miss  Lampe  if  her  own  personal  hostility  had  been 
less  great.  As  it  was,  she  hated  Miss  Lampe. 

And  Veronica  ?  Dorothy's  shame  forsook  her  in  think- 
ing of  Veronica.  If  she  hated  Miss  Lampe  as  a  base 
woman,  she  hated  and  feared  Veronica  as  a  rival.  She 
was  so  pretty  .  .  .  Oh,  she  was  so  pretty.  Veronica's 
face  was  mirrored  before  her  as  she  lay  there  with  her 
eyes  closed.  She  could  see  the  fair,  wavy  hair,  so  soft, 
so  powdered  with  lovely  gold.  She  saw  her  delicate  col- 
our, her  pretty  mouth  and  teeth.  He  couldn't  help  loving 


258  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

her,  just  for  her  prettiness,  and  because  she  loved  him. 
Secretly,  almost  below  her  consciousness,  Dorothy  saw 
Veronica  with  another  vision.  She  saw  hard  eyes  and  a 
hard  thin  mouth.  She  saw  a  horrible  eager  determina- 
tion in  Veronica,  that  was  cat-like  in  its  intensity.  In 
that  vision  Veronica's  prettiness  became  a  mask.  She 
became  feline,  soft  and  demure  without,  cruel  and  selfish 
within.  Dorothy  saw  two  Veronicas.  One  was  the 
Veronica  who  suffered :  the  other  was  the  Veronica  who 
would  do  anything — however  unscrupulous — to  avoid  suf- 
fering, to  attain  her  happiness.  Dorothy  knew  she  need 
expect  no  mercy  from  Veronica.  Well,  in  thought,  she 
had  none  to  give.  Her  thoughts  were  entirely  cruel.  She 
saw  Veronica  laying  little  traps.  She  saw  her  dishonest 
and  treacherous  .  .  .  and  Louis  so  guileless,  completely 
deceived  by  the  outward  show  of  pretty  appealing  humil- 
ity. Oh,  Veronica  would  win.  She  was  the  sort  of 
girl  who  did  win.  She  was  pretty,  selfish,  alluring. 

Dorothy  plunged  at  once  to  a  sense  of  her  own  un- 
worthiness.  She  did  not  deserve  to  be  loved.  She  was 
not  pretty,  or  charming,  or  clever.  She  had  no  quality 
to  attract  Louis.  Only  a  sharp  tongue  and  a  rude  man- 
ner. Who  could  tell  that  under  the  surface  lay  her  lov- 
ing heart?  She  might  try  to  reassure  herself  by  claim- 
ing to  be  honest,  to  be  real,  while  Veronica  was  only  a 
sham;  but  the  dreadful  lack  of  self-confidence  for  such 
a  rivalry  weighed  her  down.  She  had  none  of  the 
aplomb  that  a  girl  required  to  attract  men.  She  was  only 
an  ordinary  girl,  after  all.  Even  without  Veronica, 
Louis  would  never  have  seen  anything  in  her.  There 
was  nothing  to  see :  only  an  aching  heart  and  that  sort 
of  eagerness  which  she  had  thought  to  be  character.  She 
wasn't  any  more  real  than  Veronica.  She  was  less  real, 
because  she  loved  truth,  and  the  love  of  truth  was  incom- 
patible with  the  life  of  every  day.  If  you  loved  truth 


PAIN  259 

you  were  a  prig;  everybody  disliked  and  despised  you 
because  they  felt  you  in  some  way  superior  to  them- 
selves .  .  . 

Dorothy  tossed  and  groaned  upon  her  bed — not  with 
bodily  pain,  or  with  any  effect  of  chill  from  her  escapade 
in  the  storm ;  but  simply  from  the  agonies  of  hatred  and 
jealousy  and  despair.  She  had  slipped  so  happily  into 
love;  and  this  was  her  awakening^ to  the  fact  that  love 
is  not  all  that  is  needed  for  happiness.  Loving  and  giv- 
ing, as  an  ideal,  was  useless,  she  felt  in  her  distress,  so 
long  as  it  was  all  upon  one  side.  Unselfishness — ah,  she 
knew  her  own  selfishness.  Only  unselfish  people  know 
how  selfish  they  are:  it  is  for  the  selfish  ones  to  pro- 
claim an  uncommon  virtue. 


n 

The  day  passed.  Dorothy's  thoughts  made  her  fever- 
ish, so  that  her  temperature  rose,  and  she  lay  flushed  and 
exhausted  while  Mrs.  William  went  quietly  about  with  a 
sober  face.  William  also  came  into  the  room,  upon  tip- 
ioe,  and  looked  at  his  daughter.  To  them  she  was  price- 
less, the  unique  treasure  of  their  lives.  Not  even  Reg., 
proud  though  they  were  of  him,  was  more  beloved.  Dor- 
othy had  been  their  first  child,  the  child  of  their  most 
perfect  happiness;  and  old  joys  were  associated  with 
every  thought  of  her.  To  them  she  was  both  beautiful 
and  precious.  Her  illness,  or  her  unhappiness,  these 
alike  concerned  them  as  nothing  else  could  have  done. 
They  loved  her. 

When  either  of  them  came  into  the  room,  Dorothy, 
terrified  in  case  they  should  want  her  to  speak,  lay  quite 
still,  watching  them  as  a  sick  animal  might  have  done, 
her  eyes  strained  and  dark.  Even  the  clear  love  that 
radiated  from  them  made  her  feel  the  more  unhappy.  She 


260  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

thought  herself  so  unworthy  of  love.  It  touched  her  and 
maddened  her,  in  such  a  state  of  self -contempt  as  she 
was.  Over  and  over  again  she  thought  of  all  the  hor- 
rors her  brain  had  conjured.  She  thought  ceaselessly 
of  Veronica,  picturing  her  as  she  had  appeared  at  every 
meeting.  She  imagined  her  with  Louis,  unhappy,  happy ; 
she  saw  her  wooing  him  with  a  thousand  little  graces. 
Only  Dorothy  could  catch  the  falseness  that  lay  behind : 
Louis  would  never  know.  He  would  never  know  until 
after  marriage,  when  gradually  the  glamour  would  die, 
when  he  would  slowly  awaken  to  the  sense  of  such  silken 
threads  wound  about  him  unbreakably.  Enmeshed,  he 
would  lose  his  strength.  He  would  find  himself  a  pris- 
oner. Dorothy  could  see  him  older,  graver,  steadfastly 
loyal  but  all  the  time  groping  to  a  sense  of  Veronica's 
evil.  When  she  allowed  her  imagination  thus  painfully 
to  create  the  scenes  of  Louis's  captivity,  Dorothy  could 
hardly  restrain  herself  from  screaming.  When  she  was 
quite  alone  in  the  room,  and  nobody  could  hear  her,  she 
could  not  help  groaning,  so  great  was  her  anguish.  To 
see  him  in  love  with  Veronica — how  could  she  bear  it! 
When  she  herself  loved  him  so.  When  she  would  have 
sacrificed  her  own  life  to  make  him  happy. 

And  Louis  must  never  know  that  she  had  loved  him. 
Not  for  Dorothy's  sake,  though  many  girls  suffered 
deeply  through  their  pride;  but  because  if  Louis  learnt 
the  truth  his  chivalry  would  make  him  pity  her  so  much. 
She  was  not  afraid  of  his  scorn  or  his  triumph  in  such 
knowledge:  she  was  afraid  of  his  pity.  Oh,  she  could 
not  bear  it.  Better  death  than  such  commiseration!  It 
would  be  intolerable.  Then  a  horrible  base  thought  stole 
into  her  mind — to  show  him  her  love,  to  win  him  through 
pity,  relying  upon  time  and  unswerving  service  to  re- 
establish her  claim  to  his  respect.  So  must  many  girls 
have  won  their  lovers — by  little  appeals  for  pity,  by 


PAIN  261 

hints  of  unhappiness  at  home,  and  tales  of  being  mis- 
understood and  ignored.  Dorothy  could  not  resist  this 
impulse,  because  she  was  ill,  and  wretchedly  unhappy. 
For  a  few  minutes  she  was  breathless  under  temptation, 
lying  there  with  her  head  covered,  her  heart  beating 
wildly  in  her  throat,  her  temples  throbbing.  Her  hands 
stole  to  her  lips,  and  she  pressed  them  fiercely  with  the 
tips  of  her  burning  fingers.  .  .  . 


111 


It  passed.  The  nightmare  of  wicked  impulse  died 
away,  leaving  her  trembling  and  shivering  as  if  with 
cold.  Frantically  she  turned  again,  moaning  with  de- 
spair. Her  body  felt  as  though  it  were  on  fire.  When 
she  parted  her  lips  to  breathe  deeply  her  tongue  cracked 
with  dryness  against  the  roof  of  her  mouth.  Whatever 
pain  she  had  felt  hitherto  was  nothing  to  this  new  sense 
of  passionate  humiliation.  The  anger  with  Miss  Lampe, 
the  unsparing  jealousy  of  Veronica,  were  nothing  in  com- 
parison with  her  new  fierce  scorn  of  herself.  She  did 
not  deserve  to  be  loved,  or  pitied:  she  deserved  only  to 
be  despised,  for  the  base  creature  she  had  become  in 
imagination.  Panting,  Dorothy  stared  at  the  wall  be- 
side her  bed,  the  flowers  in  its  pattern  weaving  fantas- 
tically into  great  eyes  of  disapproval. 

How  long  her  agony  lasted  she  did  not  know.  It  was 
a  numbing  torment  that  left  her  exhausted.  When  her 
mother  next  came  into  the  room  Dorothy  could  not  bear 
her  face  to  be  seen.  It  was  as  though  all  the  bitter, 
abominable  secrets  of  her  tempted  heart  were  written 
plainly  there,  shamefully.  She  would  never  forget  those 
hours.  They  would  haunt  her. 


262  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


IV 

Louis  came  at  night,  and  Dorothy  was  too  ill  to  get 
up.  At  first  the  disappointment  was  so  great  that  ter- 
rible hysterical  sobs  shook  her;  but  she  conquered  them, 
her  throat  and  eyes  burning.  Her  hands  felt  wasted, 
as  they  might  have  felt  if  she  had  kept  them  in  water 
in  which  soda  had  been  dissolved.  They  were  hot  and 
unpleasant,  and  when  she  touched  her  face  with  them 
she  had  no  feeling  but  one  of  shuddering  repulsion.  Her 
mother,  coming  again  a  few  minutes  later,  found  Doro- 
thy lying  hopeless,  staring  at  the  ceiling;  and  with  some 
sort  of  faithful  inspiration  she  brought  Louis  into  the 
room.  So  the  two  of  them  met  again,  when  so  much  that 
was  distressing  had  happened  to  both;  and  they  were 
both  so  changed  in  mind  and  attitude  from  what  they 
had  been  at  the  first  encounter.  Dorothy  was  sightless. 
She  could  not  see  Louis ;  she  dared  not  look  at  him.  All 
she  knew  was  that  he  was  there,  and  that  he  was  talking 
to  her.  What  he  said  she  could  not  tell.  Her  mind  was 
pounding  out  his  name  over  and  over  again — Louis, 
Louis,  Louis.  .  .  .  She  lay  silent,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  some  voice  deep  within  her  heart  was  uncontrollably 
screaming. 

But  he  was  there.  Later  she  would  know  what  it  meant 
to  her.  Then  the  knowledge  of  his  presence  would  as- 
suage her  shame.  It  was  too  soon  for  his  nearness  to 
bring  such  blessed  relief;  but  already  the  sick  longing 
of  her  heart  had  begun  to  be  appeased.  All  the  weeks 
of  waiting  were  summed  up  in  her  present  sensation ;  and 
the  quiet  voice  of  Louis,  and  the  feeling  that  he  was  there, 
and  the  subtle  tranquillity  bestowed  by  the  mere  contact 
with  the  beloved,  would  eventually  bring  rest  to  her 
troubled  spirit. 


PAIN  263 

Mrs.  William  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  arms 
resting  upon  the  bed-rail ;  and  Louis  sat  on  a  little  chair 
from  which  he  could  see  Dorothy's  brow  and  her  dark 
eyes,  which  never  moved,  whether  he  spoke  or  was  silent. 
He  seemed  to  go  on  talking ;  but  Dorothy  could  never  tell 
what  he  was  saying,  and  only  heard  his  voice  as  the  most 
soothing  music  in  the  world.  She  lay  perfectly  still,  her 
hands  hidden,  her  face  slightly  turned.  It  was  only  at 
the  last  that  Mrs.  William  caught  sight  of  glistening  tears 
in  the  sombre  eyes ;  but  she  was  completely  puzzled,  and 
did  not  know  how  to  act  or  what  to  think. 

"So  I  lay  there,"  Louis  was  saying;  "and  they  came 
and  looked  at  me  and  whispered  and  felt  my  pulse ;  until 
I  began  to  feel  quite  frightened  that  they  thought  I  was 
going  to  die.  I  didn't  want  to  die.  It  seemed  so  ridicu- 
lous to  think  of  dying  .  .  ." 

"I'm  sure  it  did,"  Mrs.  William  put  in  hurriedly. 
"What  a  thought  to  have!"  She  evidently  did  not  like 
the  word  "dying" :  it  sent  a  shudder  through  her,  and  she 
would  talk  lengthily  rather  than  have  it  repeated  by  Dor- 
othy's bedside.  If  Dorothy  should  get  the  word  into  her 
head !  It  was  a  nasty,  sticking  word.  But  Dorothy  was 
not  conscious  of  what  Louis  was  saying.  She  did  not 
realise  that  Louis  was  talking  of  his  own  illness.  Her 
hearing  was  blurred ;  there  was  a  dancing  in  her  head. 
She  was  having  to  hold  herself  wholly  rigid  in  order  that 
she  should  not  begin  to  cry  with  a  feeble  causeless  joy. 
But  still  she  could  not  bear  to  look  at  him,  though  the 
blackness  before  her  was  giving  way  to  a  glimmering  of 
light  and  courage. 

"I  dare  say  you're  still  feeling  very  poorly,"  Mrs. 
William  proceeded.  "You  must  take  care  to  wrap  your- 
self up  well,  because  it's  when  you're  weak  from  lying 
in  bed  all  those  days  you're  liable  to  take  cold  as 
easy  .  .  ." 


26*  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Oh,  I'm  well  wrapped  up,"  Louis  said  reassuringly. 

"This  room's  none  too  warm  .  .  ."  Mrs.  William  bus- 
ied herself  suddenly  with  the  fire.  "Yes,  we've  often 
spoken  of  you.  .  .  .  We  couldn't  understand  why  you 
didn't  come;  and  Dorothy's  letter  was  returned " 

"Did  you  write?"  asked  Louis. 

"Well,  after  seeing  your  mother  that  time,  she  did," 
answered  Mrs.  William,  after  the  slightest  pause. 

"My  mother?"  Louis  exclaimed,  with  an  eager  air. 
"Poor  mother!  Did  you  meet  my  mother,  then?"  He 
seemed  bent  on  making  Dorothy  speak.  "And  you're 
friends." 

"Indeed,  yes ;  Mrs.  Vechantor's  been  here  to-day  .  .  ." 
cried  Mrs.  William.  "Mr.  Vechantor  brought  Dorothy 
home  last  night  .  .  ." 

"My  father?"  Louis  was  completely  mystified.  "But 
how  excellent !"  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  "You 
know,  I'm  so  awfully  sorry  to  find  you  so  ill  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  she's  not  what  you'd  call  ill.  Just  a  bit  feverish 
.  .  ."  Mrs.  William  hastened  to  say. 

"She  looks  ill,"  Louis  unwisely  ventured,  and  could 
then  have  wished  to  withdraw  the  words,  at  her  quickly 
shaken  head  of  warning. 

Dorothy  spoke  at  last,  in  a  thick  muffled  voice  that  he 
could  not  have  recognised. 

"You  must  go  and  see  .  .  .  your  mother,"  she  said. 

"I'll  go  to-night.  But  I  want  to  hear  all  your  news; 
and  I  can  see  you're  not  up  to  giving  it  this  evening.  I 
must  come  again.  I  expect  you're  blessing  me  for  .  .  ." 

"The  idea,  Louis!"  cried  Mrs.  William  anxiously;  but 
evidently  relieved  by  his  movement. 

"Don't  go!"  murmured  Dorothy.  "It's  not  .  .  .  not 
tiring  me." 

"Shall  I?"  He  interrogated  Mrs.  William.  "  I  don't 
want  to  wear  her  out." 


PAIN  265 

So  he  stayed  a  little  longer ;  but  Dorothy,  although  now 
flushing  with  secret  happiness,  and  oblivious  of  every- 
thing except  his  nearness,  continued  to  lie  there  without 
sign.  Only  her  mother  could  see  that  the  dark  agony 
which  had  appeared  in  her  face  was  lessened,  and  its 
place  taken  by  an  expression  that,  if  not  happy,  was  at 
least  free  from  the  desperation  which  had  earlier  been 
so  disquieting. 


At  last  Dorothy  was  alone,  and  Louis  had  gone;  and 
she  was  able  to  lie  there  with  her  precious  memories  of 
his  visit.  She  did  not  now  think  of  anything,  but  as 
tears  stole  gently  from  her  eyes  she  felt  that  her  wicked- 
ness had  vanished.  She  was  not  wicked  any  longer — 
wicked  in  a  mean  way,  such  as  she  had  always  despised. 
She  was  unhappy,  and  unworthy ;  but  she  was  not  wicked. 
And  nothing  was  so  bad  to  bear  as  her  self-scorn, 
which  had  so  humiliated  her.  After  a  time  she  even 
began  to  be  less  unhappy,  and  once  she  smiled  secretly  to 
herself — not  at  anything,  but  just  with  a  return  of  spirit 
that  was  so  welcome  after  her  day  of  dejection.  It  was 
the  old  Dorothy  reasserting  herself  in  that  smile.  It 
meant  nothing  so  far  as  the  future  was  concerned,  ex- 
cepting that  Dorothy's  courage  was  returning.  She  was 
feeling  better.  It  was  as  though  blood  were  flowing  back 
into  a  numbed  limb.  Thereafter  she  was  able  to  move 
freely,  and  to  wipe  her  eyes. 

"Oh  Louis!"  she  said  at  last,  very  privately,  to  the 
safe  receptivity  of  the  pillow.  "If  there  should  happen 
to  be  a  God,  which — after  Beckwith— I  can't  think  .  .  . 
I  could  wish  there  were,  so  that  you  might  be  blessed, 
my  dear.  My  dear!"  She  exulted  in  her  daring  at 
calling  him  "my  dear!"  She  could  not  have  done  it  at 


266  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

any  time  earlier  in  the  day.  She  went  on  thinking 
loving  thoughts  of  Louis.  Then  she  was  shaken  by  an 
uncontrollable  little  laugh.  "I'd  so  like  to  see  his  solemn 
face  if  he  knew  I  thought  of  him  as  a  little  ray  of  sun- 
shine. I  shall  call  him — just  to  myself — my  little  ray!" 
And  so,  once  or  twice,  she  did  call  him,  until  she  fell 
peacefully  asleep  and  remained  deep  in  slumber  through 
all  her  mother's  nocturnal  visitings. 


CHAPTER  XX:  BECKWITH  IN  THE  DOCK 


MRS.  VECHANTOR  came  the  next  day  with  a 
very  grave  face;  but  her  greeting  was  kind  and 
her  bearing  throughout  her  stay  was  beautifully  con- 
siderate. Dorothy  was  up  again,  and  sat  in  a  com- 
fortable chair  beside  the  fire,  reading  the  "Pickwick 
Papers"  and  eating  apples.  She  was  still  reading  the 
"Pickwick  Papers,"  but  was  no  longer  eating  apples, 
when  Louis  came  in  the  evening.  She  had  listened,  it 
seemed  to  her,  for  hours,  waiting  for  his  ring  at  the 
door  bell;  and  when  he  came  he  had  entered  by  way  of 
the  shop,  so  that  the  first  notice  she  had  of  his  arrival 
was  the  opening  of  the  sitting-room  door. 

Dorothy  did  not  colour :  she  just  felt  her  heart  beating 
louder,  and  was  afraid  he  might  notice  it.  She  looked 
straight  across  the  room  at  him,  so  eager  was  she  to  see 
if  he  looked  well  or  ill.  That  was  why  her  greeting  was 
a  little  cold;  and  yet,  having  been  accidentally  cold,  she 
found  it  impossible  to  change  her  manner.  It  was  as 
though  a  constraint,  begun  by  chance,  had  seized  upon 
her.  Timidly  she  strove  to  escape  from  it — in  vain. 
She  could  hardly  speak. 

Louis  came  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite  to  Doro- 
thy's, and  smiled  at  her.  She  saw  his  finely  poised 
head  as  of  old,  but  his  face  was  thinner,  and  when  the 
fire  started  into  flame  she  could  tell  that  he  was  un- 
happy. He  was  unhappy,  too.  .  .  .  Yes,  but  he  would 
soon  be  happy.  How  well  she  knew  that!  How  it 

267 


268  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

added  to  her  unhappiness !  The  weight  was  again  upon 
her  heart.  They  sat  looking  at  each  other  for  a  moment, 
two  rather  huddled  figures  in  the  warm  room. 

"I  can  see  you're  ever  so  much  better,"  Louis  said  at 
last.  "You're  not  the  same." 

"I'm  very  well,"  she  told  him.  "I'm  only  being  lazy. 
But  I  wish  you  were  quite  well." 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  pore  upon  his  face.  A  strange 
little  shock  ran  through  her.  It  was  a  faint  incredulous 
joy.  Was  it  really — could  it  be  true  that  the  one  thing 
which  Dorothy  had  regarded  as  a  blemish  had  disap- 
peared ?  It  was  true !  Even  in  that  moment,  when  she 
was,  in  spite  of  the  "Pickwick  Papers"  and  the  presence 
of  Louis,  so  far  from  being  cheerful,  Dorothy  could  not 
resist  the  consciousness  of  a  small  satisfaction.  The 
little  moustache  which  Louis  had  worn,  and  which  she 
disliked,  had  disappeared.  He  was  now  clean-shaven, 
and  the  fine  lines  of  his  mouth  were  no  longer  impaired. 
It  was  to  her  the  symbol  of  a  subtle  change  in  him. 

"I've  got  a  great  deal  to  tell  you,"  Louis  mentioned. 
"And  I  want  to  hear  quite  a  lot  from  you.  I  went  across 
the  common,  as  you  told  me  to  last  night ;  and  my  mother 
was  speaking  awfully  nicely  about  you.  I'm  so  glad 
of  that.  It's  quite  cheered  me  up  to  know  that  you  and 
she  have  become  friends.  I  always  knew  you'd  like  each 
other,  you  know.  I  didn't  see  my  father;  but  I  went  in 
to  see  him  at  the  office  to-day,  and  we've  had  a  long  talk. 
That's  all  quite  settled,  and  we've  got  over  our  quarrel. 
We've  both  apologised — very  funnily,  like  two  dogs,  or 
two  gruff  old  clubmen.  I'm  going  on  to  Apple  House 
again  when  I  leave  here.  I'm  going  to  stay  there." 

"To  be  in  Beckwith  ?"  Dorothy  did  not  know  whether 
it  was  joy  or  fear  that  made  her  heart  beat  so  fiercely. 

"Yes.  So  I  shall  often  see  you.  And  you  must  come 
and  see  us." 


BECKWITH  IN  THE  DOCK  269 

Dorothy  shook  her  head. 

"Oh  no ;  you  won't  want  me,"  she  said  quietly,  with  a 
nervous  movement  of  her  hand.  Louis  frowned.  She 
knew  that,  without  looking  at  him.  Why  had  he 
frowned  ? 

"What  nonsense!"  he  said.  "You're  all  coming. 
We'll  have  a  new  order  immediately.  We  shall  come 
here,  and  you'll  come  to  Apple  House.  And  Beckwith 
will  gibber.  And  the  business  will  go  up  like  a 
rocket.  .  .  ." 

"Rather  like  that,  I'm  afraid,"  Dorothy  could  not  help 
saying  dryly.  "It  can't  go  much  farther  down,  as  far  as 
I  can  see." 

"I  think  things  are  going  to  be  rather  jolly,"  Louis 
said,  in  a  cheerful  way. 

"I  wish  they  were,"  thought  Dorothy  soberly. 

ii 

However,  in  spite  of  the  depression  which  she  could 
not  altogether  shake  off,  they  went  on  talking  very  com- 
fortably. Louis  described  how  he  had  left  his  father's 
office  with  the  intention  of  never  returning;  and  how, 
after  leaving  the  flat  near  Finsbury  Square  two  days 
later,  he  went  to  Camden  Town,  fell  suddenly  ill,  was 
taken  to  a  nursing  home,  and  there  tended  until  he  slowly 
got  better.  He  told  how,  on  the  night  of  the  concert, 
he  had  travelled  down  to  Beckwith,  had  called  at  the 
shop,  and  had  followed  to  the  Church  Rooms.  Then, 
how,  after  Dorothy's  appearance  in  the  second  part  of  the 
programme,  he  had  resolved  to  catch  a  train  due  a  few 
minutes  later  and  had  hurried  from  the  hall.  That  train, 
Dorothy  guessed,  must  have  been  far  out  of  sight  by  the 
time  she  reached  the  station  No  wonder  she  had  not 
caught  him  up. 


270  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

She  listened  to  the  story  with  her  eyes  nearly  closed, 
loving  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  the  little  pictures  he 
gave  of  the  things  that  had  happened  to  him ;  but  all  the 
while  filled  with  a  melancholy  because  she  could  see  no 
happy  ending  to  all  her  thoughts.  "It's  no  good.  It's 
no  good,"  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  thinking  of  the 
future.  And  when  he  spoke  of  the  concert  she  felt  a 
stab  of  pain  as  she  recalled  the  details  of  the  evening — 
not  as  separate  events,  but  as  one  miserable  clot  of 
distress. 

"And  now,"  Louis  concluded ;  "what  about  you  ?  How 
did  you  get  into  this  state  ?" 

iii 

"Louis,"  said  Dorothy  suddenly.  "I  wish  you  hadn't 
to  go  back  to  your  father's  business." 

It  was  so  unexpected,  that  Louis  started.  He  thought 
for  an  instant  before  answering. 

"Well  ...  I  wish  I  hadn't,  too;  but  there's  no  getting 
out  of  it.  I  can't  give  it  up  now.  What  did  you  mean, 
though?  Nothing  about  my  father,  of  course." 

"Oh  no;  though  I  think  he  was  cruel.  I  wish  you 
could  do  something  yourself.  I  mean,  to  step  right  out- 
side money-making.  I'm  very  vague  about  it;  but  .  .  . 
something  .  .  .  Dad  laughs  at  me  when  I  say  that  word ; 
but  I  don't  know  any  other — something  'real.'  D'you 
know,  I  don't  think  anybody  in  Beckwith  is  doing  any- 
thing real — anything  to  make  the  world  better  or  happier. 
I  always  get  stupid,  I  know.  .  .  ." 

Louis  sighed,  looking  at  the  animation  of  her  face,  so 
different  from  its  earlier  expression  of  a  rather  pinched 
misery. 

"I'm  such  an  awful  failure,"  he  said.  "I've  been 
thinking  .  .  .  You  must  excuse  me,  Dorothy;  but  if  I 


BECKWITH  IN  THE  DOCK  271 

start  talking  about  this  there'll  be  no  stopping  me. 
Everything  I  try  to  do  myself  simply  goes  wrong." 

"It  doesn't.  It  may  seem  to  for  a  time !"  cried  Doro- 
thy stoutly. 

"Perhaps  that's  it,"  agreed  Louis.  "I  wish  I'd  been 
able  to  talk  to  you  a  month  ago." 

"You  might  have."  It  was  only  a  murmur;  but  he 
caught  it. 

"I  know  I  might.  But  somehow  .  .  .  when  you 
want  anybody  to  like  you,  you  can't  go  to  them  and  tell 
all  your  rotten  little  miseries." 

Dorothy  drew  a  quick  breath.  A  faint  colour  came 
into  her  cheeks. 

"I  should  have  been  so  proud,"  she  said  quickly. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  they  did  not  again  speak. 
Dorothy  had  been  given  a  tiny  spark  of  happiness  by 
his  candour,  and  she  was  thrilling  with  it.  Louis  re- 
mained still,  looking  at  the  fire,  and  thinking  of  Daunton 
and  Veronica  and  the  shop.  Presently  he  sighed  again. 

"What  was  it  you  wanted  me  to  take  up?  The  real 
thing,  I  mean,"  he  proceeded. 

"No.  That's  where  I'm  vague.  I  hadn't  thought  of 
anything.  Only  ever  since  we  came  to  Beckwith  I've 
been  looking  at  all  the  men  getting  fatter  and  the  women 
getting  uglier,  and  the  children  getting  more  like  their 
fathers  and  mothers;  and  I've  felt  like  screaming,  and 
saying:  Tor  goodness'  sake,  stop  it!  What's  the  good 
of  repeating  yourselves  all  over  and  over  again,  and 
making  more  men  who  grow  fatter  and  women  who  grow 
uglier,  and  children  who  grow  up  like  their  mothers  and 
fathers  ?'  I've  felt  like  Alice  at  the  trial,  when  she  says 
they're  all  only  cards.  But  nothing  happened — to  change 
them.  Don't  you  see?  It's  so  horrible  to  see  them 
going  on  and  on — endlessly,  like  .  .  .  like  I  don't  know 
what.  That's  what  I've  thought.  Of  course,  your 


272  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

father  hasn't  got  fat.  I  didn't  mean  he  had.  Or  that 
you'll  get  fat.  I  don't  think  you'll  ever  get  that." 

"Oh,  the  two  diseases  in  Beckwith  are  fatty  degenera- 
tion and  desiccation,"  Louis  said.  "I  shall  get  desic- 
cated. I've  felt  that  I  was  going  downhill.  You  see, 
I've  never  had  to  worry  about  money.  I've  never  had  to 
be  ambitious.  If  you  go  to  Oxford  with  money  you 
just  get  through  your  days  very  happily,  and  all  you  do 
there  unfits  you  for  taking  any  work  very  seriously. 
That  is,  unless  you're  naturally  a  worker.  I'm  not.  I 
never  did  anything  much  at  Oxford,  and  I've  never  done 
anything  much  in  Beckwith."  He  thought  a  moment. 
"I  suppose  you  might  say  I've  never  tried  to  improve 
Beckwith?" 

"You  couldn't,"  Dorothy  said,  in  a  clear  voice.  "No- 
body could." 

iv 

"I  wonder,"  objected  Louis  thoughtfully. 

"Only  a  revolution  could,"  Dorothy  added.  "A  sud- 
den upheaval.  It  might  make  them  think.  Oh,  but 
nothing  could  make  them  think.  They've  got  nothing  to 
think  with.  It  isn't  a  question  of  brains  alone.  It's 
imagination  they  want.  They  can't  put  themselves  in 
other  people's  shoes." 

"Can  you,  in  theirs?"    Louis  wondered  still. 

Dorothy  thought  for  a  moment.  Had  she  ever  tried 
to  do  that?  Perhaps  not:  she  had  been  eager  in  readi- 
ness to  be  at  one  with  them ;  but  in  finding  that  they  did 
not  share  her  wish  for  friendship  she  had  shrunk  into 
a  state  of  hostility.  She  had  unsparingly  criticised  them 
for  stubborn  refusal  to  meet  her  on  level  terms. 

"I  should  have  thought  so,"  she  claimed  at  last.  "At 
least,  I've  tried  to  understand  what  makes  them  so  stupid. 


BECKWITH  IN  THE  DOCK  273 

I  can  only  think  it's  natural  to  them  to  be  stupid.  Are 
you  defending  them?" 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Louis,  startled  afresh  by 
her  question.  "I  couldn't.  I've  become  as  hostile  to 
them  as  you  could  possibly  be.  No,  I  think  they're  in- 
defensible." 

"You  see,  when  we  came  here  they  never  tried  to 
wonder  if  we'd  come  innocently.  They  saw  us  as  ene- 
mies from  the  beginning.  It  was  they  who  began  the 
trouble.  We  didn't.  We  only  wanted  to  carry  on  the 
business — Dad  wanted.  Directly  we  found  out  about 
you,  we  shivered  and  wanted  to  go  away  again;  but  it 
was  too  late.  They  never  asked  what  our  feelings  were. 
They  were  beastly  from  the  start.  Oh,  Louis;  you  don't 
know  what  it's  been  to  go  out  into  this  beautiful  country 
and  always  to  meet  frowns  or  sniffs,  and  to  have  the 
girls  turning  away — as  if  I  should  hurt  them.  When  I 
only  wanted  to  be  nice  to  everybody." 

Unconsciously  Dorothy  had  become  pathetic,  a  forlorn 
figure  by  the  fireside,  with  the  flames  leaping  upon  her 
dress  and  her  pale  face.  She  looked  even  younger  than 
she  was — a  child  who  has  been  grievously  disappointed. 
Louis  hastened  to  reassure  her  as  to  his  own  feeling. 

"Don't  think  I  haven't  hated  it,"  he  said  hurriedly. 
"Why,  that  was  one  of  the  chief  things  that  drove  me 
away."  He  laughed  slightly,  without  enjoyment.  "It's 
been  one  of  my  chief  horrors  that  I  didn't  stay  and  stand 
by  you.  If  I'd  done  that  I  shouldn't  feel  such  a  weak- 
ling. I  just  left  you  in  the  lurch." 

"It  wasn't  that  that  drove  you  away." 

"It  was  the  beginning.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the 
first  trouble  with  father?"  He  described  the  scene  at 
the  dinner-table.  "You  couldn't  understand  how  I  felt," 
he  concluded.  "Absolutely  hopeless." 

"I  could,"  Dorothy  said,  very  low,  her  eyes  flashing. 


274  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  ever  feel  hopeless,"  Louis 
protested.  "You're  so  confident." 

"I?"  Dorothy  was  astounded.  "Why,  Louis  .  .  . 
How  .  .  .  Isn't  it  funny  how  people  get  wrong  ideas 
about  others!  You  think  you're  weak;  and  I  don't 
think  so  at  all.  You  think  I'm  confident  ...  I  think 
it's  only  because  I  was  so  rude  to  you  at  first.  When  I 
think  about  myself  I  wonder  why  I'm  alive — what  use 
I  am  to  anybody.  I  seem  just  to  go  on  from  day  to 
day  .  .  .  never  to  do  anything  worth  while  at  all.  If 
anybody  ever  felt  hopeless  it's  I.  Sometimes  I'm  in  de- 
spair." 

Both  were  very  moved  at  such  a  mutual  disclosure.  It 
made  both  of  them  very  thoughtful  for  several  minutes. 
At  last  Louis  said,  with  a  quick  nod  that  showed  he  had 
understood  her: 

"This  isn't  much  like  our  first  talk,  is  it!  We've  both 
grown  a  little  since  then." 

They  might  have  gone  on  endlessly.  Nevertheless,  the 
disclosures  had  been  made.  They  saw  each  other  more 
truly,  which  had  been  a  necessity  to  them.  He  did  nol 
want  to  go ;  but  it  was  nine  o'clock,  and  he  had  to  see  his 
father;  so  their  conversation  was  ended  a  few  minutes 
later.  Louis  held  Dorothy's  hand  for  a  moment  in 
parting. 

"I'll  think  about  what  you've  said,"  he  went  on. 
"Although  I  stay  at  the  office  there's  no  reason  at  all  why 
I  shouldn't  pull  myself  together  and  live  a  rather  wider 
life.  I'm  afraid  I've  got  the  Beckwith  habit  of  mind. 
I've  lived  here  too  long.  It's  a  sort  of  parochialism. 
But  you'll  help  me  get  over  it,  won't  you?" 

"I  do  wish  I  wasn't  so  young!"  cried  Dorothy  im- 
pulsively. "It's  such  a  hindrance." 

"And  so  pretty?"  he  asked,  with  a  pleasant  look. 


BECKWITH  IN  THE  DOCK  275 

Did  he  think  her  pretty,  then  ?  Dorothy's  heart  gave 
a  bound. 

"I  wish  I  was  as  beautiful  as  the  stars,"  she  said.  "If 
that  would  be  any  use." 


When  he  had  gone,  Dorothy  went  back  to  the  fire,  and 
Louis's  words  still  rang  in  her  ears.  He  thinks  I'm 
pretty !  she  thought.  It  was  extraordinarily  comforting. 
It  started  a  wild  hope  in  her  mind.  He  thought  her 
pretty.  Perhaps  he  didn't  think  Veronica  was  pretty? 
Oh,  but  she  was!  Dorothy  shook  her  head.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  which  of  them  was  the  prettier.  And 
did  her  prettiness  count  for  anything?  She  tried  hard 
to  read  any  sort  of  feeling  other  than  kindness  in  his 
manner. 

"Oh  no,  my  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  addressing  herself, 
and  her  spirits  sinking;  "you  may  be  pretty;  but  it's 
Veronica  who  ..."  A  long  vagueness  beset  her,  in 
which  reveries  drifted  kaleidoscopically.  Again  she 
shook  her  head.  "He  likes  me  as  a  friend.  He  can  talk 
to  me.  Well,  I  can  talk  to  him.  I  feel  extraordinarily 
as  though  we  had  ever  so  much  that's  the  same  in  us. 
Perhaps  too  much.  But  he  isn't  in  love  with  me.  Why 
should  he  be?  Anyway,  I'd  rather  be  his  friend  than 
nothing.  I  think  ...  I  think  I'd  rather  be  his  friend 
than  be  Veronica  Hughes.  I'm  sure  I'd  rather  not  be 
her.  Not  at  any  price.  Not  for  the  sake  of  marrying 
him.  Not  even  for  that.  No  ...  Perhaps  it's  only 
sour  grapes.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  I  don't  think  it  is.  .  .  ." 

Even  as  she  said  that  her  heart  froze ;  because  nothing 
on  earth  could  make  her  disbelieve  altogether  in  miracles. 
She  was  quite  too  young  to  have  reached  the  point  of 
disbelieving  in  miracles  where  love  is  concerned.  It 
would  have  been  too  much  to  ask  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI:  BECKWITH  ON  THE  BENCH 


DOROTHY'S  sleep  that  night  was  sweet  and  long; 
and  when  she  saw  in  the  morning  how  the  Febru- 
ary sun  had  flooded  her  room  with  warm  light  her  heart 
was  rejoiced.  She  parted  the  curtains  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  Their  garden  ran  down  to  another 
garden;  but  beyond  that  was  a  field  in  which  on  Satur- 
days boys  played  football,  and  beyond  that  again  were 
trees  that  hid  other,  larger,  gardens.  The  trees  she  saw 
were  fruit  trees,  for  Beckwith  was  a  great  fruit-growing 
district  and  every  garden  was  an  orchard.  In  a  few 
weeks  the  lovely  white  cherry  blossom  would  transform 
this  view  into  a  fairy  vista,  and  later  there  would  be  the 
faintly-coloured  blossom  of  apple  and  pear.  All  the 
scents  and  sounds  of  the  happy  seasons  would  come 
gradually  into  being,  and  birds  would  chirrup  and  bees 
would  hum.  She  would  awaken  to  the  noises  of  Spring 
and  Summer;  her  heart  would  feel  as  though  it  were 
bursting  with  joy.  If  she  tried,  she  could  imagine  the 
long  beautiful  evenings,  with  the  sun  sinking  and  light 
breezes  making  the  leaves  whisper,  and  she  could  feel 
upon  her  face  the  scented  air,  heavy  and  sweet.  Even 
now  Dorothy  could  distinguish  a  new  freshness  that  was 
carried  in  at  her  open  window — a  freshness  that  softened 
her  heart  and  made  her  stand  upright  with  a  passionate 
outreaching  to  beauty.  It  would  be  so  exquisite  ...  if 
only  she  were  happy.  She  knew  that  to  sit  in  the  garden 

276 


BECKWITH  ON  THE  BENCH  277 

at  Apple  House,  while  the  birds  chattered  and  the  roses 
hung  sleepily  in  the  sunshine,  must  be  to  endure  a  perfect 
sensation.  It  was  peace  that  she  so  desired,  the  power  to 
rest  for  a  moment  in  such  content,  as  innocent  of  plan 
or  fear  as  a  hovering  butterfly.  And  whenever  she  had 
passed  Apple  House  it  had  been  with  the  sense  that  here 
was  the  true  abode  of  peace.  To  be  able  to  go  there, 
gently  walking  in  the  garden,  hearing  and  seeing  the 
delights  of  such  an  arbour,  was  to  Dorothy  a  dream, 
something  sweeter  than  she  had  ever  known. 

In  a  reverie,  she  stood  looking  out  of  the  window, 
until  the  duties  of  the  moment  called  her  to  help  her 
mother.  The  day  was  begun.  But  for  the  outer  world, 
which  had  yet  so  incongruous  a  call  to  her  active  spirit, 
Dorothy  could  have  dreamed  her  way  through  the  hours. 
That  thought  fulness  which  had  been  brought  by  her  love 
for  Louis  endured  from  day  to  day,  and  she  was  less 
impatient  than  she  had  been  of  inaction.  But  it  did  not 
destroy  her  sense  of  immediate  facts,  and  her  help  was 
not  less  competent  than  it  had  been.  She  it  was  who 
swept  the  room  and  laid  the  table,  while  her  mother 
prepared  the  meal.  It  was  Dorothy  who  saw  that 
nothing  was  omitted,  that  her  father  had  his  newspaper 
ready  to  hand,  and  her  mother  the  particular  knife  with 
the  frizzled  handle  which  she  had  used  each  morning  for 
fifteen  years.  No  detail  was  lost;  all  was  arranged 
methodically  and  well.  Dorothy  had  a  clear  head.  So, 
when  William  came  into  the  room,  rather  short  and 
broad,  his  fresh  face  shining  and  clear,  he  knew  at  once 
that  his  girl  was  better  and  in  what  he  called  good  fight- 
ing trim.  So,  when  Reg.  came  tumbling  down  the 
stairs,  rather  late,  there  was  the  satisfactory  feeling  all 
through  this  cheerful  family  that  things  were  as  usual. 

"I  don't  know  what  we  should  do  without  our  little 
Doll,"  cried  William,  rubbing  his  hands.  "Now,  where 


278  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

do  we  stand?"  He  proceeded  to  serve  the  bacon  and 
eggs.  Only  his  two  womenfolk  knew  that  he  was  de- 
pressed. At  that  moment  William  was  cheerful;  for 
he  had  thrown  off  his  worry  in  the  pleasure  at  the  family 
reunion.  But  the  sight  of  the  bacon  had  reminded  him 
of  business,  and  the  sight  of  his  face  had  made  Dorothy 
remember  that  her  own  trouble,  although  the  most 
poignant  to  her,  was  not  the  only  anxious  thing  that  had 
to  be  endured  at  this  juncture. 

ii 

And  all  the  time,  whether  they  were  talking  or  not, 
Dorothy  did  not  care  what  happened  about  the  shop. 
Shops  or  houses,  houses  or  shops — what  had  they  to  do 
with  essential  things?  Why  was  it  they  became  so  un- 
important when  one  was  in  love?  She  knew  they  could 
not  be  ignored,  that  love  must  fade,  and  its  bloom 
vanish,  if  all  sorts  of  things  that  went  to  make  up  the 
details  of  life  were  not  planned  and  foreseen;  but  with- 
out love  what  did  they  matter?  Nothing  at  all.  One 
lived,  one  existed;  but  life  had  no  significance.  It  was 
because  life  had  no  significance  to  them  that  the  Beckwith 
people  roused  her  scorn.  They  had  no  reason  to  go  on 
being  alive,  for  their  hearts  were  dead.  While  she,  so 
full  of  love,  and  even  so  full  of  fear,  had  her  profound 
secret,  the  spring  that  moves  character,  the  hidden  power 
that  makes  for  righteousness. 

She  thought  of  what  Louis  had  said.  How  patient  he 
had  been  with  her!  He  had  seen  her  ideal,  but  not  her 
love.  She  recalled  his  words,  wondering  over  them  as 
if  they  had  been  treasures.  But  none  of  them  had  been 
words  of  love — only  of  friendship  and  confidence  in  her, 
as  though  he  felt  that  she  could  be  trusted.  He  had 
said,  to  explain  why  he  had  not  told  her  earlier  of  his 


BECKWITH  ON  THE  BENCH  279 

discouragements,  that  he  had  wanted  her  to  like  him. 
That  was  sweet  to  Dorothy.  But  only  to  like — not  to 
love.  Secretly,  she  thought  with  joy  of  his  face,  of  his 
gestures.  Supposing  he  were  rather  in  love  with  Veron- 
ica— excitedly  pleased  with  her  prettiness  and  her  wish 
to  please  him.  Supposing  he  really  turned  to  Dorothy, 
as  to  one  who  could  best  understand  him.  .  .  .  Shrewdly 
and  bitterly  she  shook  her  head.  Men  did  not  fall  in 
love  with  girls  whom  they  thought  wise  and  sympathetic. 
The  things  that  made  them  fall  in  love  were  quite  differ- 
ent. Coquetry,  which  flattered  them;  mysteriousness, 
that  attracted  their  curiosity  .  .  .  Those  were  what  mat- 
tered. Dorothy  had  no  coquetry,  and  no  mysterious- 
ness.  She  shook  her  head  again,  sighing;  and  Mrs. 
William  pondered  as  she  refilled  William's  cup,  for  she 
had  seen  these  two  shakings  of  the  head,  and  she  was 
deeply  concerned  with  the  thoughts  that  gave  rise  to 
them. 


in 

Housework  and  the  preparation  of  the  midday  meal 
kept  Dorothy  busy  during  the  morning.  It  was  not  until 
after  the  meal  that  she  was  free  to  go  out-of-doors.  The 
sun  was  then  so  bright,  and  the  white  clouds  from  the 
north-west  were  travelling  so  quickly,  dappling  the  earth 
with  their  flying  shadows,  that  the  day  was  exquisite. 
Noises  echoed  in  the  Spring-like  air,  and  the  voices  from 
the  playing  field  rolled  o-o-oh  like  incredulous  cries  in 
billows  of  small  sound.  When  Dorothy  went  out  she 
heard  everything  distinctly,  and  held  her  head  high  be- 
cause the  wind  was  so  boisterous.  All  the  upper 
branches  of  the  trees  were  swaying.  Quick  fingers  of 
bright  sunshine  chased  each  other  across  the  common, 
starting  long  patches  of  grass  into  glistening  emerald  and 


280  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

by  contrast  darkening  the  other  parts  of  the  green. 
There  was  a  sound  in  the  air  as  of  rushing  water.  Doro- 
thy's heart  seemed  as  though  it  had  expanded,  it  felt 
so  soft,  and  ready  to  be  easily  moved.  The  roofs  of  the 
houses  besides  the  common  shone.  When  one  was  in  the 
sun  its  warmth  was  perceptible.  It  was  a  beautiful  day, 
keen  and  fine,  a  day  for  long  walks  and  for  happiness, 
brilliant  and  open. 

Already  the  people  of  Beckwith  were  coming  out  of 
their  houses.  Doors  were  slamming  in  the  sudden  gusts 
of  wind.  The  girls  wore  brighter  clothes,  and  looked  up 
at  the  clouds  as  if  they  were  all  filled  with  the  same 
enthusiasm  as  Dorothy.  She  felt  exalted.  It  was 
Saturday,  and  there  was  a  stir  of  activity  in  the  town. 
Carts  dashed  out  beside  the  green  and  pulled  up  in  front 
of  the  houses.  Boys  with  footballs  were  coming  in  little 
groups,  making  their  way  from  the  town  to  the  neigh- 
bouring fields  where  they  were  going  to  pick  up  sides 
and  rush  about  in  their  shirt  sleeves  or  their  football 
jerseys,  shouting  and  happy.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
Veronica  and  Miss  Lampe  Dorothy  would  have  felt  lov- 
ing to  all  the  world. 

It  was  while  she  was  walking  thus  beside  the  common, 
hugging  the  treasure  of  her  delight  in  all  this  sense  of 
growth  and  happy  activity,  that  Dorothy  saw  approach- 
ing her  from  the  opposite  direction  the  figure  of  Mr. 
Toppett.  Instantly  she  was  aware  of  a  slight  shrinking, 
for  she  remembered  the  scene  in  the  dressing-room  and 
that  this  was  her  first  time  out-of-doors  since  that  dread- 
ful evening.  She  tried  hard  not  to  let  her  shrinking  be 
seen,  although  for  an  instant  it  paralysed  her,  and  walked 
on  with  her  eyes  bright  and  her  cheeks  a  little  flushed. 
Mr.  Toppett  had  his  eldest  child,  a  boy  of  four,  who  was 
forced  to  wear  large  round  black-rimmed  spectacles, 
walking  beside  him.  It  would  have  been  so  easy  to  stop 


BECKWITH  ON  THE  BENCH  281 

and  make  a  little  laughing  introduction.  It  would  have 
meant  nothing,  but  it  would  have  shown  charity  and 
kindness.  The  little  boy  was  tightly  holding  Mr.  Top- 
pett's  hand  in  his  hot  fist,  and  was  dragging  and  wander- 
ing about  the  path  in  his  puppy-like  curiosity  at  all  he 
saw.  Dorothy  shrank  again.  Mr.  Toppett  came  nearer. 
As  he  approached  she  heard  him  say  to  his  little  boy  in 
an  irritated  voice,  "Come  on,  come  on.  ...  You  must 
look  where  you're  going."  But  he  kept  his  eyes  low, 
pretending  to  be  engrossed  with  the  stumbling  boy. 
His  broad  ugly  face  was  severe :  he  deliberately  avoided 
taking  any  notice  of  Dorothy. 


IV 

With  her  head  up,  and  her  cheeks  sparkling,  Dorothy 
walked  on.  A  strange  little  coldness  stood  in  her  breast, 
like  a  fear,  and  her  lips  trembled  into  a  smile  of  wounded 
pride;  but  she  kept  upon  her  way.  She  was  saying  to 
herself :  "I  see  ...  I  see  ..  ."  and  pretending  that  she 
didn't  mind.  But  she  was  bitterly  hurt.  It  was  signifi- 
cant. She  perfectly  understood  that  she  had  been  out- 
rageous and  was  to  be  punished  She  had  been  too 
honest,  and  Beckwith  was  going  to  punish  her. 

Perhaps  Dorothy's  first  impulse  had  been  to  go  to 
Apple  House,  but  after  this  encounter  that  had  become 
impossible.  She  could  not  force  herself  upon  Mrs.  Ve- 
chantor,  who  had  been  so  kind,  if  she  were  once  again 
really  in  disgrace.  Mrs.  Vechantor  would  be  em- 
barrassed. She  was  bound  to  wish  to  withdraw.  After 
all,  she  had  only  been  kind  to  a  girl  who  was  in  the 
extremity  of  distress. 

"Oh,  I'm  no  good,"  Dorothy  thought,  with  a  horrible 
dismay.  "I'm  always  wrong.  I  can't  do  right.  There's 


282  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

something  outrageous  about  me.     I  don't  fit  .  .  .  I'm 
no  good." 

She  was  in  a  sort  of  wounded  despair.  Some  impulse 
made  her  turn  away  from  Apple  House.  She  felt  it  was 
forbidden  to  her.  Instead,  she  turned  down  another 
road,  the  road  that  led  to  the  railway  station.  She  would 
go  round  by  that  way,  and  home  again  by  the  road  in 
which  she  and  her  father  had  met  Louis  that  Sunday. 
For  a  moment  Dorothy  did  not  realise  that  the  way  she 
had  impulsively  chosen  would  take  her  past  Miss  Lampe's 
house.  Had  she  thought,  she  would  have  known  this 
and  would  have  fled  by  any  other  road.  As  it  was,  she 
went  blindly  on,  her  heart  still  beating  with  indignation 
and  chagrin,  until  she  was  almost  abreast  of  the  ugly 
little  house,  and  did  not  see  that  Miss  Lampe  was  in 
the  act  of  slamming  her  front  door.  Nor  did  Miss 
Lampe  see  Dorothy  until  they  were  quite  close,  and  she 
was  stepping  down  backwards  from  her  doorstep.  The 
sound  of  a  step  made  Miss  Lampe  look  over  her  shoulder. 
The  shock  of  seeing  Dorothy  confused  her  for  a  moment. 
Her  ankle  turned;  her  foot  slipped  from  the  step  into 
the  greasy  mud  of  the  footpath,  and  Miss  Lampe  sat 
down  abruptly  in  front  of  her  own  house,  in  a  shallow 
puddle  of  undrained  water. 

v 

"Oh !"  they  both  said,  uncontrollably,  with  different  * 
inflections.  Miss  Lampe  grew  violently  red,  and  Doro- 
thy stopped  dead  in  front  of  her.  Then  Dorothy  ran 
forward,  holding  out  her  hands  to  assist  the  fallen  woman 
who  sat  so  uncomfortably  before  her.  But  Miss  Lampe 
waved  her  off. 

"No!"  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  frenzy;  and  scrambled  to 
her  feet,  turning  a  muddy  back  upon  Dorothy.  She  was 
in  a  terrible  state  of  excitement,  trembling  and  talking 


BECKWITH  ON  THE  BENCH  283 

to  herself.  She  could  not  wait  to  use  her  door-key,  but 
hammered  violently  at  the  door,  so  that  her  old  and  deaf 
servant  should  admit  her.  She  clung  to  the  door-knob. 
"Go  away!  Go  away!"  she  cried  to  Dorothy,  turning 
over  her  shoulder  a  face  distorted  with  all  sorts  of  emo- 
tions. "I  won't  have  you  touch  me." 

Miss  Lampe  could  never  have  realised  the  grotesque 
effect  of  her  muddied  black  poplin  dress,  creased  and 
dirty,  her  wrinkled  face,  turned  a  carroty-red  by  her 
excitement,  her  ugly  bonnet  thrown  askew  by  the  fall. 
She  was  too  filled  with  frantic  distaste  for  Dorothy  to 
think  of  anything  at  all,  and  continued  to  hammer  at 
her  front  door  with  the  fierceness  of  one  demented. 

"I'm  so  awfully  sorry,"  Dorothy  said  subduedly. 

"Go  away.  You  bad  girl !"  cried  Miss  Lampe.  "You 
bad  girl !"  She  strained  her  head  away. 

Dorothy  stood  helplessly  for  a  moment.  Then,  with 
a  shrug  which  she  could  not  help,  she  walked  on.  Long 
after  she  had  gone  she  heard  the  knocker  still  at  work, 
but  she  did  not  turn  round.  She  felt  shocked  and  irri- 
tated at  this  extraordinary  scene;  both  hurt  and  miser- 
able. But  when  she  had  walked  a  little  farther,  and  was 
quite  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  she  was  shaken  by  a  fit 
of  nervous  and  almost  hysterical  laughter  at  the  unex- 
pected sight  of  Miss  Lampe  sitting  in  the  muddy  pathway 
and  Miss  Lampe  clinging  to  her  own  front  door,  with 
thin  streams  of  mud  trickling  piteously  down  her  poplin 
skirt.  It  was  the  height  of  the  grotesque,  because  Miss 
Lampe  would  rather  have  died  than  appear  before  Doro- 
thy in  any  plight  so  ridiculous. 

vi 

That  was  not  the  last  of  Dorothy's  encounters,  for 
when  one  goes  out-of-doors  in  Beckwith  it  is  impossible 


284  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

to  avoid  meeting  one  quarter  of  the  residents  in  the  town. 
She  had  turned  up  an  unfrequented  road,  that  was  sacred 
upon  summer  evenings  to  those  amorous  couples  who 
love  strolling  under  over-arching  trees  or  sitting  upon 
mossy  banks  among  the  great  straying  roots  of  trees, 
which  lie  above  the  surface  of  the  ground  like  great 
veins.  Upon  such  evenings  one  could  see  the  white  tufts 
of  scampering  rabbits  like  feathers  in  the  dusk.  The 
ground  hereabouts  was  full  of  rabbit-holes,  into  which 
inquisitive  dogs  dived  whining  and  scratching  as  they 
were  taken  along  the  road.  Now,  however,  the  earth 
was  still  bare.  The  undergrowth  was  just  sparking  into 
faint  bud,  the  moss  was  greening,  the  tiny  fallen  branches 
from  the  previous  year  still  cracked  under  the  feet 
Only  above  the  trees  interlaced,  and  their  skeleton  boughs 
rattled  in  the  wind. 

It  was  a  lonely  road,  and  when  the  clouds  obscured  the 
sun  it  was  dark.  A  piece  of  glass  sparkled  once  by  the 
roadside,  and  something — it  may  have  been  a  rat,  or  a 
mouse,  or  a  little  bird — made  a  slight  noise  among  some 
dead  and  sodden  leaves  as  Dorothy  passed.  Otherwise 
everything  was  still.  Dorothy,  recovered  from  her  fit  of 
laughter,  had  tears  in  her  eyes;  her  lips  trembled  again 
at  the  feeling  of  desolateness.  She  became  suddenly 
oppressed  with  a  sense  of  the  road's  gloom,  frightened  of 
being  alone.  It  made  her  hurry,  to  escape  the  dread,  the 
haunting  unfathomable  dread,  that  was  upon  her.  The 
trees  were  full  of  a  thousand  eyes,  watching  her  distress, 
and  mocking  her.  For  two  or  three  steps  she  ran;  but 
when  her  nerves  were  again  under  control  she  tried  to 
reassure  herself. 

"It's  nothing,"  she  whispered.  "I'm  not  well.  I'm  a 
coward.  Oh,  but  how  aivful  it  is  to  be  alone!  I'm 
frightened  of  being  alone.  If  I  were  much  alone  I  think 
I  should  go  mad.  People  do,  you  know.  When  they're 


285 

imprisoned,  or  ...  sent  to  Coventry.  That's  what  I 
am.  And  what  have  I  done  that's  wicked?  Nothing. 
I've  done  nothing  wicked.  It  was  Miss  Lampe  who  was 
wicked.  .  .  ."  She  puzzled  over  it  for  a  long  time.  It 
all  seemed  so  wrong  to  her.  Yes,  but  Miss  Lampe  had 
fallen  in  the  mud.  She  wouldn't  have  fallen  in  the  mud 
if  she  hadn't  had  a  bad  conscience.  "She's  got  a  bad 
conscience,"  Dorothy  assured  herself.  "I  haven't 
That's  because  I'm  wicked.  But  I'm  not  wicked.  I've 
never  been  wicked.  She's  got  a  bad  conscience,  and  it 
made  her  fall  in  the  mud.  I  can't  help  feeling  rather 
glad.  .  .  .  No,  I'm  not  glad.  How  glad  she'd  have 
been  if  it  had  been  I  who  fell  in  the  mud!  She'd  have 
thought  it  a  punishment.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she'll  say  I  did! 
Perhaps  she'll  say  I  pushed  her!  Oh,  how  horrible  to 
be  as  wicked  as  Miss  Lampe!  Good,  I  mean.  ...  Of 
course,  I  mean  good!" 

She  had  been  thinking  so  much  about  Miss  Lampe  and 
her  fall  in  the  mud  that  she  did  not  notice  Veronica 
Hughes  in  the  distance;  but  Veronica  had  seen  her  and 
had  turned  hastily,  walking  quickly  in  the  other  direction. 
Something  in  that  abrupt  turn  drew  Dorothy's  attention 
to  the  figure  of  Veronica.  Her  heart  gave  a  jerk.  It 
was  Veronica.  Something  made  Dorothy  begin  to  walk 
more  quickly.  She  did  not  gain  upon  Veronica.  She 
began  to  run,  and  so  began  to  overtake  her.  As  if 
Veronica  heard  the  steps  behind  she  too  increased  her 
pace.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  she  too  began  to  run;  but 
it  was  only  that  she  walked  with  flying  steps.  Dorothy, 
heated  and  excited  by  the  run,  lost  heart  suddenly,  and 
stopped  about  a  dozen  yards  behind,  panting.  Veronica, 
unable  to  resist  the  bidding  of  her  curiosity,  looked  fear- 
fully over  her  shoulder. 

"Miss  Hughes,"  cried  Dorothy. 

Veronica  walked  on.     Dorothy  repeated  her  cry.     For 


286  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

a  moment  Veronica  wavered.  Then  she  turned,  only 
half -stopping. 

"I  don't  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said,  in  a  breath- 
less, choking  voice. 

"Oh,  but  .  .  .  please  tell  me.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I'm 
wicked  for  .  .  .  being  rude  to  Miss  Lampe?"  called 
Dorothy. 

Veronica  made  no  reply,  but  walked  quickly  on. 
Dorothy  shrugged  her  shoulders,  very  red,  and  dropped 
back.  She  had  deliberately  courted  this  discomfiture, 
and  she  had  been  rewarded.  What  an  idiot  she  had 
been!  To  lay  herself  open  to  the  snub.  To  invite  it! 

When  Veronica  was  quite  a  long  distance  away  she 
again  turned  round.  At  first  she  could  not  speak;  but 
at  last,  with  a  great  effort,  she  gained  strength  to  call  out 
in  a  trembling  voice. 

"I  think  you're  abominable!"  she  cried  shrilly;  and 
resumed  her  headlong  flight. 

vii 

Dorothy  was  quite  taken  aback  at  such  a  word.  It 
was  such  an  odd  word;  and  yet  there  could  be  no  mis- 
taking either  the  word  or  the  venom  with  which  it  had 
been  uttered.  Why  should  Veronica  hate  her?  People 
would  say,  because  Dorothy  knew  Veronica's  secret ;  but 
that  was  cynical  absurdity.  It  was  not  true.  Why 
should  Veronica  hate  her,  and  not  Miss  Lampe  and  the 
others  who  had  been  there?  It  frightened  her.  When 
she  thought  of  her  three  meetings,  her  three  horrible 
meetings,  she  was  overcome  with  terror.  What  did  it 
mean?  What  had  she  done?  What  did  they  think  she 
had  done? 

It  was  all  very  mysterious,  and  Dorothy  drew  her 
breath  sobbingly  as  she  stumbled  after  Veronica.  The 


BECKWITH  ON  THE  BENCH  287 

day  had  lost  all  its  sweetness  for  her.  She  no  longer 
noticed  the  moving  freshness  of  the  opening  Spring. 
The  sky  had  become  overcast.  No  birds  sang.  All  was 
dark  and  melancholy.  She  was  alone  in  that  dreary 
road,  but  in  life  she  was  still  more  completely  alone.  She 
did  not  dare  to  think  of  seeing  Mrs.  Vechantor.  The 
new  promising  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Toppett  was  at 
an  end.  Veronica,  whom  she  so  despised  and  pitied  and 
feared,  thought  her  abominable.  Miss  Lampe  was  now 
her  declared  enemy.  Mr.  Toppett  ignored  her— Mr. 
Toppett,  who  should  have  been  the  last,  by  his  own 
faith,  to  be  lacking  in  charity.  Of  all  others  he  should 
have  been  the  one  to  try  to  be  kind  to  her.  Instead,  he 
was  the  first  to  pass  her  with  averted  face.  That  was 
his  charity.  Well  for  the  world  that  all  clergymen,  all 
teachers  of  mankind,  were  not  as  he!  Mr.  Toppett,  as 
barometric  as  anybody  in  Beckwith! 

And  Louis  was  lost  to  her.  Sooner  or  later,  now,  he 
would  hear  all  about  her.  That  frank  talk  was  the  last 
they  would  have  together.  When  he  learned  that  she 
had  run  through  the  rain,  like  a  mad  creature,  forgetful 
of  all  the  dignity  with  which  a  girl  must  hide  her  feelings 
from  all  human  creatures,  he  would  hate  her.  He,  too, 
if  Veronica  thought  that,  would  find  her  abominable! 
It  was  too  much !  Dorothy  paused  in  the  deserted  road, 
wiping  her  eyes,  her  mouth  drooping  at  the  corners,  worn 
out  with  the  weight  of  reproach  which  she  was  having  to 
carry. 

She  had  hardly  the  courage  to  find  her  way  back  into 
the  town.  She  passed  Apple  House  with  her  head  down, 
in  case  anybody  there  should  see  her.  Deliberately,  she 
skirted  the  common  by  the  less  freely  used  road,  hoping 
thus  to  avoid  further  unkindness.  Not  wholly  was  she 
successful.  Two  or  three  people,  seeing  her,  looked  an- 
other way,  and  afterwards  watched  her  with  inquisitive, 


288  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

critical  eyes.  She  made  no  attempt  to  obtain  their  recog- 
nition. She  felt  as  though  she  was  finally,  without  ap- 
peal, yet  for  what  sin  she  did  not  yet  know,  an  outcast. 
Even  when  Dorothy  reached  the  High  Street,  and  was 
about  to  enter  the  shop,  she  had  not  ended  that  after- 
noon's ordeal,  for  she  saw  in  the  distance  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Toppett  and  their  little  boy,  all  walking  hand  in  hand. 
She  saw  Mrs.  Toppett  falter,  look  at  her  husband,  and 
flush  deeply.  It  was  with  a  new  kind  of  pain  that  Doro- 
thy recognised  Mrs.  Toppett's  kind  impulse.  She  turned 
away,  but  not  before  she  had  caught  and  acknowledged 
the  little  bow  that  Mrs.  Toppett,  in  defiance  of  all  Beck- 
with,  had  given  in  her  direction.  It  made  her  heart 
swell.  But  it  made  her  go  straight  to  her  bedroom  and 
there  relieve  in  a  burst  of  passionate  weeping  the  burden 
of  her  over-charged  heart.  It  was  the  one  piece  of 
kindness  shown  her  in  the  whole  of  that  beautiful  after- 
noon, when  all  nature  was  radiant  and  only  the  occupants 
of  houses  in  Beckwith  were  showing  still  the  chill  effects 
of  winter. 


CHAPTER  XXII:  SUNDAY  MORNING 


THE  next  day  was  Sunday,  another  lovely  day  with 
the  wind  from  the  north-west  and  high  white 
clouds  swimming  across  the  sky  as  if  they  had  been  swans 
upon  an  illimitable  lake.  Dorothy  was  up  early,  al- 
thoughN  she  was  weary;  and  the  breakfast  was  cleared 
away  and  the  housework  half-done  before  the  first  church 
bells  began  to  ring.  There  was  a  sweet  chime  from  Mr. 
Toppett's  church,  and  a  dull  "hell-hell-heH"  from  the 
Congregational  church,  and  a  sharper,  but  equally 
monotonous  outcry  from  the  Baptist  chapel.  Some- 
where in  the  town  there  was  also  a  braying  Salvationist 
band.  All  these  loud  noises  combined  with  the  general 
stillness  to  remind  everybody  in  Beckwith  that  this  was 
Sunday.  The  High  Street  was  filled  with  people  smartly 
dressed  and  sedate,  who  carried  prayer  books  and  made 
a  regular  hushing  sound  of  feet  in  unison.  Dorothy 
looked  out  from  the  window  in  Reg.'s  room,  and  sighed 
to  see  everybody  apparently  so  contented,  while  she  alone 
was  heartsore. 

Her  mother  and  father  had  joined  the  throng.  She 
and  Reg.  remained  in  the  house.  She  was  going  to  cook 
the  dinner,  and  must  presently  hurry  downstairs  to  mix 
the  ingredients  for  her  pudding.  Already  the  currants 
were  soaking  in  a  big  basin;  and  she  was  going  to  roll 
them  in  a  cloth,  and  pick  away  the  stalks.  Hey!  she 
thought-  I  mustn't  stand  idling  here!  It'll  never  do! 
So  she  began  to  hurry,  and  Reg.'s  room  was  quickly 

289 


290  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

finished.  He  was  already  downstairs,  boiling  a  kettle  in 
order  to  obtain  steam  for  one  of  his  models. 

When  everybody  was  in  church,  and  when  Dorothy, 
with  spotless  sleeves  rolled  above  her  pretty  elbows,  had 
stalked  her  currants  and  was  mixing  the  pudding,  Reg. 
was  at  work,  whistling  and  laughing,  with  all  the  in- 
ventor's pride  in  a  practicable  device.  He  called  down 
from  his  room :  "Doll !  Dollee !  Done  it !" 

"Hoo,  good !"  cried  Dorothy,  and  continued  mixing  her 
pudding.  To  herself  she  added:  "I'm  so  glad!"  Re- 
flectively, as  she  continued  thinking  about  the  model,  and 
about  her  abstracted  kettle,  she  thought:  "He'll  be  in  a 
good  temper  all  day.  What  a  blessing!  It'll  be  quite 
like  home!" 

It  was  at  that  moment,  when  her  arms  were  all  floury, 
that  a  ring  came  at  the  door.  She  thought  it  must  be  the 
milkman,  and  so  she  took  his  bottle  and  a  big  jug,  and 
presented  Louis,  who  stood  without,  with  a  new  picture 
of  his  cousin. 

"Hullo,  Dorothy !"  he  said,  refusing  the  bottle  and  the 
jug  with  a  careless  gesture. 

So  he  had  come.  Well,  why  had  he  come?  Dorothy 
wondered.  She  looked  frankly  at  him  in  surprise,  and 
with  her  apron  wiped  flour  off  the  door-catch.  Mutely 
she  admitted  him,  and  they  went  together  into  the  kitchen 
behind  the  shop. 

ii 

"And  now,"  said  Louis.  .  .  .  "What  I've  really  come 
for  is  to  ask  whether  you  would  all  care  to  come  over 
to  Apple  House  to  tea.  I've  brought  a  letter  from  my 
mother  to  Mrs.  William,  and  if  she's  not  in  you're  to 
read  it  and  tell  me,  if  you  can,  whether  you  can  come." 

"But  Louis!"  cried  Dorothy.  She  stood  before  him 
very  floury,  having  stood  the  milkman's  property  upon 


SUNDAY  MORNING  291 

the  table  beside  her  basin.  A  pucker  of  doubt  stood  in 
her  forehead.  She  did  not  attempt  to  take  the  offered 
note. 

"Why  not?"  Louis  was  unshaken.  "I  ought  to  say 
that  this  is  all  my  mother's  own  idea.  It's  not  a  com- 
mand. It's  just  her  first  real  attempt  to  be  friendly. 
I've  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  .  .  ." 

"No.  I  can't  come."  Dorothy  seemed  to  awaken 
from  a  dream. 

"Angry?" 

"No.  Afraid."  She  met  his  question  squarely. 
Louis  waited.  Mechanically,  she  began  again  to  stir 
the  flour  and  the  currants  together  in  her  large  pudding 
basin.  He  saw  her  head  shaken. 

"What,  then?     Afraid  of  my  father?" 

Again  Dorothy's  head  was  shaken.  She  did  not  see 
how  she  could  go  to  Apple  House  when  everybody  in 
Beckwith  was  trying  to  show  her  that  she  was  some- 
thing vile. 

"It  seems,"  she  said  at  last,  as  he  waited  so  patiently, 
leaning  against  the  table,  with  a  slow  smile  crossing  his 
face — a  smile  which  was  not  at  all  amused,  but  only 
kind.  "It  seems  that  I've  been  doing  something  very 
wicked.  I  don't  know  what  it  is;  but  it's  evidently 
wicked.  And  I'm  so  afraid  that  when  your  mother  hears 
about  it — of  course,  it's  not  true  .  .  .  whatever  it  is — 
she'll  feel  I've  taken  advantage  of  her  kindness.  Miss 
Lampe  says  I'm  wicked.  And  Ver  .  .  ."  She  stopped, 
afraid  now  to  mention  that  name.  Then,  her  honesty, 
and  perhaps  her  jealousy,  getting  the  upper  hand,  she 
concluded:  "And  Veronica  Hughes  thinks  I'm  abom- 
inable." 

"Veronica!"      A  colour  came  into  Louis's  cheeks. 

Dorothy  stood  there  quiet  silent,  devouring  that  colour. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  stabbed  herself,  for  her  heart 


292  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

raced.     Every  drop  of  blood  seemed  drained  from  her 
face.     She  felt  stifled. 

iii 

"Do  you  know  Veronica  Hughes,  then  ?"  Louis  asked, 
almost  carelessly.  "Oh,  I  suppose  you  must,  as  she  was 
singing  at  the  concert."  He  paused,  looking  down. 
"D'you  like  her?"  he  suddenly  asked. 

Dorothy,  her  lips  tightly  closed,  breathed  rapidly. 
Her  hands  were  still  again.  With  brooding  eyes  she 
watched  his  averted  face,  and  when  he  sharply  turned, 
waiting  for  her  answer,  she  could  not  drop  her  lids  in 
time  to  hide  her  doubt. 

"Oh,  you  don't  !'r  Louis  said.  His  tone  seemed  to  be 
sharp.  Dorothy  tried  to  smile. 

"I  think  she's  most  awfully  pretty,"  she  said.  "No- 
body could  help  thinking  that.  But  when  a  girl  has 
called  you  abominable  you'd  hardly  be  expected  to  like 
her  very  much.  Or  think  of  her  justly. 

"Why  did  she  call  you  abominable?"  asked  Louis,  in- 
tently listening. 

"I  don't  quite  know.  Because  I  asked  if  she  thought 
I  was  wicked." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  self-conscious,"  laughed 
Louis.  "Do  you  ask  everybody  that?" 

"Not  everybody,"  Dorothy  said,  with  pain.  "Never, 
anybody,  until  I  came  to  Beckwith." 

"And  what  put  wickedness  into  your  head  at  all?  I 
mean,  why  did  you  ask  her?  It  seems  such  a  curious 
gambit." 

Dorothy  drew  a  quick,  rather  sobbing  breath. 

"Louis,  I  can't  go  on  talking  about  it.  I'm  unhappy 
about  it ;  because  it's  so  recent.  But,  you  see,  I  shouldn't 
like  to  come  .  .  .  and  your  mother  to  think  I'm 
wicked  .  ." 


SUNDAY  MORNING  298 

Louis  put  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  above  the  elbow,  not 
so  that  his  fingers  touched  her  skin.  His  expression  was 
altogether  kind  and  sympathetic. 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  he  said.  "D'you  suppose  she  cares 
two  carrots  what  these  people  say  about  you?  Why, 
where's  your  nerve,  Dorothy?  You're  not  losing  it,  are 
you?  I've  no  doubt  all  the  pussies  in  Beck  with  have 
hurried  to  my  mother;  and  I'm  absolutely  sure  she  means 
to  stand  by  you.  Besides,  I'd  trust  your  opinion  of  your- 
self before  anybody's.  I  would,  really.  And,  another 
thing:  I  don't  think  you  could  be  particularly  wicked. 
You  don't  somehow  manage  to  convey  an  impression  of 
wickedness.  Of  course,"  he  was  rather  inclined  to  laugh, 
because  he  could  not  take  seriously  anything  so  absurd 
as  this  charge,  "you're  rather  daring  for  Beckwith. 
Rather  honest.  What  Beckwith  calls  'rather  fast'  And 
God  bless  you  for  it !" 

He  said  these  last  words  in  a  curious,  sudden  voice, 
and  rose  to  his  full  height.  Dorothy  glowed  a  little, 
looking  trustfully  at  him,  and  feeling  grateful;  but  not 
yet  convinced  that  her  shocks  of  yesterday  had  been  mat- 
ter for  laughter.  Her  heart  was  still  too  heavy  for 
laughter. 

The  sound  of  Reg.'s  galloping  feet  upon  the  upper 
stairs  caused  her  to  speak  quickly. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "About  coming.  ...  It 
would  be  so  awful  .  .  ." 

Reg.  burst  into  the  room. 

"It's  working  grand!"  he  cried.  Then,  seeing  Louis, 
he  pulled  up.  There  was  a  perceptible  change  in  his 
attitude  to  his  cousin.  "I  say,  could  you  both  come  up 
and  look  at  it?"  he  begged.  "I'm  so  afraid  it'll  go  off 
the  boil." 

"My  pudding !"  gasped  Dorothy. 

They  all  made  for  the  stairs,  Reg.  hastening  on,  with, 


294  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

from  his  room,  shouts  of  a  reassuring  and  hortatory 
character. 

iv 

They  stayed  for  only  a  minute.  Then  Dorothy  was 
forced  to  hurry  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  Louis  followed 
her  as  quickly  as  he  dared.  He  stood  by  Reg.'s  engine, 
admiring  the  cleverness  which  had  given  rise  to  it.  Reg. 
discoursed  for  a  few  minutes;  but  was  soon  lost  in  ex- 
periment, talking  to  himself,  as  boy-inventors  do.  Ac- 
cordingly Louis  was  able  to  slip  away  almost  unobserved. 
He  rejoined  Dorothy. 

"I  must  go  now,"  he  said.  Impudently,  he  concluded  : 
"I  shall  say  you're  coming.  I  shall  say  you  insist  on  dis- 
cussing your  wickedness  with  my  mother.  Shall  I?" 
Dorothy  did  not  answer.  "Or  would  you  rather  I  used 
the  word  abominableness  ?" 

"Oh,  Louis!"  she  cried  desperately.  "Don't!  Don't 
joke!  I  can't  bear  it!" 

A  kind  of  horror  had  come  into  her  face.  Her  eyes 
were  dilated.  She  was  trembling. 

"Dorothy!"  he  said  quickly.  "I  never  meant  to  hurt. 
I  was  trying  to  cheer  you  up.  Do  forgive  me!  I  was 
a  beast !" 

"No.  .  .  .  But  if  you  knew  how  it  hurt!" 

"These  people?"  he  demanded  incredulously.  "De- 
spise them !  I  though  you  did." 

Dorothy,  still  breathing  quickly,  watched  him. 

"Despise  Veronica  Hughes  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  smothered 
voice. 

Louis  fell  silent  for  an  instant.  His  face  had  become 
altogether  grave. 

"Well,  shall  we  say  .  .  .  feel  sorry  for  her  .  .  ."  he 
suggested.  "Because  she  forgot  her  own  sweetness  in 
some  fit  of  anger." 


SUNDAY  MORNING  295 

"Well,  then,"  said  Dorothy,  with  an  air  of  spirit  which 
had  no  echo  in  her  heart,  "I'll  try  and  feel  sorry  for  her. 
But  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  myself.  I  was  sorry 
for  her.  I  am  sorry.  But  she  needn't  have  been  so 
cruel." 

"Oh,"  said  Louis.  "People  are,  you  know.  Veron- 
ica's always  been  rather  cruel.  I  think  perhaps  we're  all 
rather  cruel.  .  .  .  Don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dorothy,  in  a  sober  voice.  "Perhaps  we 
are." 

A  few  moments  later,  with  her  arms  still  floury,  she 
went  with  him  to  the  front  door.  His  last  words  as  he 
turned  away  were : 

"I  shall  expect  you !" 

Dorothy,  looking  up  at  the  clock,  was  filled  with  panic. 
That  panic  saved  her  from  melancholy  thoughts.  It 
made  her  concentrate  upon  the  dinner,  and  work  is  a  good 
obstacle  to  oppose  to  painful  reflection.  This  fact  is 
well  known  in  Beckwith,  which  is  never  tired  of  the  old 
saw  about  Satan  and  idle  hands.  In  his  room  at  the  top 
of  the  house  Reg.  was  defying  Satan,  and  at  the  top  of 
his  voice  singing  "Alexander's  Rag-Time  Band."  In 
the  kitchen  Dorothy  was  shaking  her  head  and  gently 
lowering  her  pudding  into  a  pot  of  water.  She  was  shak- 
ing her  head  over  Louis. 

"He  didn't  let  me  see  what  he  felt  about  her,"  she  was 
thinking.  "And  like  a  silly  jealous  girl  I  tried  to  make 
him  think  badly  of  her.  Eh  dear,  he  knows  now  that 
I  don't  like  her.  One  day  she'll  tell  him  the  reason.  Not 
the  true  reason;  but  near  enough  ...  for  her.  She'll 
be  sure  of  him  then."  Dorothy  continued  to  stand  by 
the  kitchen  fire,  hearing  the  muffled  roar  behind  and  be- 
neath the  iron  enclosures.  It  came  to  her  to  think  at 
this  moment:  "But  she  isn't  sure  of  him  now.  She's 


«96  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

frightened."  Suddenly  her  face  became  deadly  pale, 
and  her  hands  rose,  clenched  and  trembling.  She  cried 
out  in  a  loud  voice :  "It's  something  she's  said  about  me. 
Something  she's  invented.  Oh,  why  didn't  I  see  it  be- 
fore! Of  course,  that's  what  it  is!" 

For  several  minutes  Dorothy  was  in  a  state  of  extreme 
terror. 


CHAPTER  XXIII:  SUNDAY  AFTERNOON 


M 


RS.  VECHANTOR'S  note  was  very  short  and 
very  cordial.     It  said: 


"DEAR  MRS.  WILLIAM, — Do  you  think  you  would  all 
care  to  come  across  the  common  this  afternoon  about 
four  o'clock  to  have  tea  at  Apple  House?  We  should 
all  be  so  glad  if  you  could  come.  I  want  you  to  meet 
my  husband;  and  now  that  Louis  is  at  home  again  and 
we  are  all  together  it  would  be  a  nice  way  to  bring  our 
two  families  together  and  make  all  the  members  known 
to  each  other.  I  do  hope  you  will  come.  It  would  be 
very  generous  of  you. — Yours  sincerely, 

"ENID  VECHANTOR." 

"H'm,"  said  Mrs.  William  interestedly.  "Her  name's 
Enid.  .  .  .  Can't  say  that  it's  a  name  I  was  ever  very 
fond  of.  A  pale  name,  I  always  thought  it  .  .  ."  She 
looked  critically  at  her  husband.  "Will  dear,  that  tie's 
too  bright  to  go  out  in  again  to-day  .  .  ." 

"Eh,  eh,  eh?"  said  William,  trying  to  see  over  his  chin. 
"Go  out  ?  What's  the  matter  with  my  tie  ?" 

"Rotten!"  cried  Reg.     "Like  a  sunset." 

"No,  Reg.  It's  not  like  a  sunset,"  objected  his  mother 
mildly.  "It's  too  bright  for  going  out  to  tea.  It's  very 
nice  for  going  to  church,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  in  a  house 
it's  different.  You  can't  stand  colours  in  a  house  like 
you  can  in  church.  At  least,  I  can't ;  and  I  expect  Mrs. 

207 


298  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Vechantor's  the  same  as  me  in  that  respect."  She  was 
very  patient;  but  she  was  firm. 

"Mum.  .  .  .  Don't  let  him  wear  a  black  tie,"  urged 
Dorothy. 

William  looked  round  with  affected  indignation. 

"It's  taken  for  granted,"  he  said,  "that  I'm  going  out. 
I  don't  know  that  I  am  .  .  ." 

"I  think  he'd  do  then,"  placidly  remarked  Mrs. 
William.  "Don't  you,  dear?"  She  turned  to  Dorothy. 
"I  must  make  sure  he's  got  one  of  Reg.'s  handkerchiefs." 

"I  say!"  clamoured  Reg.  "I  like  that!  He  can't  have 
one  of  mine.  I'm  using  them  all.  I  want  them  all  my- 
self." 

It  was  explained  to  Reg.  that  his  father  had  no  credit- 
able handkerchiefs;  and  at  last  Reg.  nodded  his  head, 
giving  consent  to  the  use  of  a  beautiful  white  handker- 
chief with  Reg.'s  name  embroidered  by  Dorothy  in  the 
corner  of  it.  All  this  time  William  had  been  rolling  his 
eyes. 

"Here,  give  me  the  letter,"  he  demanded  at  last;  and 
he  read  it  attentively.  Then  he  looked  round  at  his 
family.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I  must  say  that  I'm  ashamed 
of  my  family.  Ashamed  of  my  family.  Here  was  Reg. 
here  saying  he'd  never  so  much  as  look  over  the  gate  of 
his  cousins'  house,  and  Doll  saying  they  could  keep  their 
old  family  pride  in  the  dustbin,  where  it  belonged.  .  .  . 
And  Mum  saying  it  was  quite  right  to  keep  the  two 
families  distinct.  .  .  .  Yet  the  first  whistle;  and  you're 
all  after  it,  like  cats  after  a  herring.  .  .  .  I'm  ashamed  of 
my  family." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  William.  "I  don't  think  you'd 
better  have  any  more  pudding,  because  you'l1  want  to 
go  to  sleep;  and  I  don't  expect  your  cousin  would  like 
that,  in  his  own  house.  It's  not  as  if  you  were  at 
home.  .  .  .  Will  dear,  you're  not  listening  .  .  ." 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  299 


11 


At  a  quarter-to-four  they  were  all  ready  to  start.  Mrs. 
William  inspected  them.  Dorothy  she  passed,  as  to 
garments,  without  remark ;  Reg.*  and  William  had  a  more 
prolonged  examination.  She  herself  turned  slowly 
round  before  them  all,  and  each  solemnly  assured  her 
that  everything  was  well.  Handkerchiefs  were  shown— 
even  flourished;  and  the  family  descended  the  stairs  like 
an  Indian  tribe,  William  leading  the  way.  The  High 
Street  was  quiet.  Only  a  few  loiterers — little  boys,  one 
with  a  mortar-board  hat,  and  one  with  a  tight  little 
bowler,  stood  about,  their  boots  brightly  polished,  and 
their  faces  shining.  A  girl  came  quickly  along  from  the 
common,  evidently  a  maidservant  from  one  of  the  large 
houses.  It  was  a  bright  afternoon,  and  the  sun  was 
warm  in  spite  of  the  early  season. 

"All  ready?"  queried  William;  and  then  slammed  the 
front  door. 

At  that  moment  a  figure  came  close  to  them ;  the  figure 
of  a  tall  thin  man  with  a  line  down  each  cheek  like  the 
curly  backward  "S"  in  the  face  of  a  violin,  and  with 
rather  long  side-whiskers.  The  man  was  clearly  a 
tradesman,  though  he  was  dressed  in  a  frock-coat  and  tall 
hat.  He  hurried  up  to  William,  and  coughed,  and  took 
off  his  hat  to  the  ladies,  coughing  again  behind  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Vechantor?"  he  asked,  in  a  self-depreciating 
voice.  "Pardon  me,  Mr.  Vechantor ;  but  could  you  .  .  . 
is  it  too  much  to  ask  you  to  give  me  a  few  moments  of 
your  valuable  time?  I  wouldn't  trouble  you;  but  my 
business  is  urgent.  A  few  minutes.  .  .  .  My  name's 
Flisk — Herbert  Flisk.  You  may  have  noticed  my  little 
shop  in  the  Station  Road  .  .  .  Flisk:  Provision 
Dealer  .  ." 


300  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Oh,  Mr.  Flisk,"  said  William,  with  a  quick  scrutiny. 
"Of  course  I  know  your  name.  Well,  my  dears,  you'd 
better  go  on  alone  .  .  .  I'll  come  on  later,  when  I've  seen 
what  Mr.  Flisk  .  .  ." 

"Very  kind  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Flisk.  "Very  kind,  I'm 
sure." 

He  took  off  his  hat  with  a  flourish,  and  disappeared 
into  the  doorway  in  company  with  William.  The  three 
others  went  slowly  towards  the  common. 

"I  wonder  what  he  wants,"  said  Mrs.  William,  voicing 
the  common  thought.  Dorothy  added,  in  a  moment : 

"He's  been  getting  all  Dad's  trade,  I  think  .  .  ." 

All  were  busy  in  thought  with  this  unexpected  incident 
as  they  crossed  the  common.  Dorothy  had  no  eyes  for 
anybody  they  passed;  and  so  she  did  not  notice  that 
Veronica  Hughes  saw  them  all  go  into  the  gate  of  Apple 
House. 


in 

Like  any  other  visitors,  they  were  ushered  into  the 
drawing-room  by  Rosemary,  whose  whole  face  beamed 
with  the  delighted  surprise  of  one  offered  a  tit-bit  of 
information.  Rosemary,  in  fact,  almost  (but,  fortu- 
nately for  her  reputation  as  the  finest  parlourmaid  in 
Beckwith,  she  did  not  quite  fail  in  the  requisite  com- 
posure) slammed  the  door  of  the  room  in  her  eager  haste 
to  rush  away  and  impart  the  news  to  her  fellow-servants. 
From  those  servants  to  other  servants,  from  servant  to 
mistress,  from  mistress  to  mistress,  the  advent  of  the 
William  Vechantors  would  spread  like  gorse-fire  on  the 
morrow. 

Meanwhile  the  new-comers  were  welcomed.  Emanuel 
Vechantor,  very  uncomfortable,  but  sustained  by  his 
pride,  grasped  their  hands  in  turn.  He  allowed  his  wife 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  301 

to  receive  Mrs.  William,  while  Louis  carried  Reg.  off  to 
look  at  a  system  of  home-made  incandescent  light  which 
had  its  place  in  what  had  once  been  stables  at  the  back  of 
the  house.  Emanuel  accepted  Dorothy  as  an  old  friend. 
He  was  at  first  stately ;  but  presently  he  warmed,  talking 
to  her,  thawing  at  her  pretty  voice  and  her  good  be- 
haviour. She  was  very  timid  with  him  until,  when  she 
could  raise  her  eyes,  she  found  that  he  also  was  shy ;  and 
from  that  moment  they  were  good  friends.  She  had 
been  terrified  at  the  thought  that  he  would  remember  her 
first  bedraggled  appearance  in  that  room.  To  her,  for 
this  reason,  the  visit  had  more  terrors  than  to  any  of  the 
others.  But  the  terror  passed.  She  found  herself  sur- 
prisedly  talking  to  Emanuel  about  ancient  Rome.  She 
knew  nothing  of  ancient  Rome:  she  was  almost  as  igno- 
rant of  it  as  any  girl  could  have  been :  yet,  being  ignorant, 
she  talked  about  it  to  Emanuel.  That  is  to  say,  she 
found  herself  asking  him  questions,  and  intelligently  re- 
ceiving answers  to  her  questions.  When  tea  was  brought 
in  she  felt  a  slight  pressure  upon  her  arm  as  Emanuel 
drew  her  attention  to  an  arm-chair  nearer  to  the 
table.  ...  It  gave  her  an  electrical  thrill.  She  scanned 
his  face  in  doubt,  reading  there  only  kindness  and  liking. 
She  felt  so  extraordinarily  grateful  that  her  heart 
softened.  She  forgave  him  for  quarrelling  with  Louis. 
She  even  wondered  how  it  was  that  two  such  men  should 
ever  have  quarrelled.  As  if  by  instinct  she  looked  across 
the  room  to  Louis,  as  if  to  say  "Isn't  it  wonderful!"  and 
found  him  looking  back  with  a  pride  that  was  still  fur- 
ther moving  and  wonderful. 

Then  Rosemary  threw  open  the  door  again,  this  time 
with  pride,  but  with  none  of  the  amazed  flourish  that 
she  had  used  in  announcing  the  first  comers. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toppett,"  she  said. 

Dorothy  felt  her  heart  go  cold. 


302  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


IV 

How  terrible  that  he  should  come!  She  saw  Mrs. 
Vechantor  flush  slightly,  and  wondered  if  this  visit  had 
been  expected.  What  did  Louis  think?  His  face  was 
inscrutable.  Standing  up  to  receive  the  visitors  he 
looked,  she  thought,  more  handsome  than  ever.  With 
secret  delight  she  observed  his  grace,  his  beautiful  easy 
gestures.  Nothing  could  have  made  her  feel  more  proud. 
The  Toppetts  came  into  the  room.  They  seemed  to  be 
brought  up  sharply  at  the  sight  of  those  present,  and  a 
quick  eager  expression  of  pleasure  lighted  up  Mrs.  Top- 
pett's  face.  She  turned  to  Mrs.  William  as  soon  as  she. 
had  greeted  her  hostess,  and  then  smiled  and  nodded  to 
Dorothy. 

It  was  Mr.  Vechantor  who  took  in  hand  the  mention 
of  Dorothy. 

"I  think  you  know  my  young  cousin,  Toppett  .  .  ."  he 
said. 

Dorothy,  with  beating  heart,  saw  Mr.  Toppett  bow  to 
herself.  He  came  nearer  for  an  instant.  His  ugly  face 
was  expressionless.  Dorothy  thought  he  might  have  been 
thinking  anything  of  her.  He  might  have  thought  her 
wicked  .  .  .  She  looked  quickly  to  Louis,  for  support, 
for  protection.  He  came  forward  at  once,  and  she  stood 
with  Louis  upon  one  side  and  Mr.  Vechantor  upon  the 
other — solid  enough  support  in  Beckwith  for  any  girl, 
however  her  good  name  had  been  questioned.  She  thrilled 
at  the  sense  of  safety.  Ah,  she  was  safe  now  with  her 
cousins  beside  her !  Even  Mr.  Toppett  must  understand 
that! 

It  appeared  that  he  did.  He  spoke  courteously  to  her, 
as  he  had  never  spoken  before.  That  he  was  puzzled  she 
could  not  doubt.  That  he  was  confused  she  thought 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  303 

likely.  But  at  last  she  was  spoken  to  as  a  real  girl,  and 
not  as  a  person  to  be  endured.  Mr.  Toppett  -withdrew. 
He  went  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Vechantor.  It  was  all  so  quiet, 
so  pleasant;  and  the  conversation  of  Louis  and  Mr. 
Vechantor  was  so  gentle  and  humane  that  she  was  ab- 
sorbed; but  some  clairvoyance  made  Dorothy  realise 
deep  in  her  heart  that  Mrs.  Vechantor  was  talking  to  Mr. 
Toppett  about  her.  She  knew  it  as  well  as  she  would 
have  done  if  they  had  constantly  looked  in  her  direction. 
They  were  talking  of  her.  And  Mrs.  Vechantor  was  her 
friend.  She  did  not  think  her  wicked ! 

Such  cordiality  was  balm  to  Dorothy.  She  was  al- 
most happy,  for  the  first  time  for  weeks.  It  was  a  sig- 
nificant afternoon.  She  understood  then  that  Mrs.  Ve- 
chantor had  been  truly  her  friend,  and  that  she  was  enlist- 
ing Mr.  Toppett  as  her  cousin's  champion  at  every  tea- 
table  in  Beckwith.  Mrs.  Vechantor  not  only  thought 
Dorothy  not  wicked ;  but  she  had  taken  this  means  as  one 
of  several.  .  .  .  Dorothy's  defence  had  been  put  in  train. 
Dorothy's  heart  swelled.  Miss  Lampe  and  Veronica 
might  say  what  they  pleased.  Their  spiteful  tongues 
would  be  unavailing.  Very  well.  Dorothy  could  forgive 
everything.  She  could  even  begin  to  forgive  Veronica. 
Not  wholly  could  she  do  that;  but  even  a  beginning  had 
been  impossible  that  morning. 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  tea-party.  And  when  the 
Toppetts  were  going,  and  Mrs.  Toppett,  holding  Doro- 
thy's hand,  had  bent,  upon  sudden  impulse,  and  kissed 
her,  Dorothy  looked  steadfastly  at  Mrs.  Toppett's  hus- 
band. He,  too,  was  warm. 

"Miss  Vechantor,"  he  said,  in  his  harsh  and  resonant 
voice,  "I  wish  you'd  let  me  thank  you  for  your  work  at 
our  concert.  It  was  a  great  success.  Everybody's  been 
talking  about  it  to  me,  and  praising  it.  They  all  agree.  I 
hope  you'll  be  persuaded  to  come  and  help  us  again.  .  .  ." 


304  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Dorothy's  eyes  closed.  Her  heart  was  beating  in  her 
throat.  Oh,  it  was  sweet — coming  now,  when  she  had 
been  so  cruelly  unhappy.  And  Louis?  What  did  he 
think?  He  was  coming  back  into  the  room,  his  head 
down,  his  hand  still  upon  the  door.  But  to  her  glance  of 
inquiry  he  returned  a  little  smiling  nod  that  was  quite 
sufficiently  emphatic  for  Dorothy.  If  she  had  only  been 
able  to  read  his  heart ! 


William  did  not  arrive  until  five  minutes  later.  He 
was  preoccupied.  His  heartiness  was  gone.  He  looked 
small  and  out  of  place  in  the  large  drawing-room.  A 
whitish  look  in  his  generally  fresh-coloured  face  showed 
that  he  was  discomposed.  Something  had  excited  him. 
He  was  perfectly  friendly  to  Emanuel,  but  he  was  sub- 
dued. Dorothy  easily  read  all  that.  But  what  had  hap- 
pened ?  What  had  Flisk  said  or  done  ?  She  would  have 
to  wait. 

Not  for  long.  William  presently  moved  round  to 
where  she  was  sitting,  and  where  Louis  was  standing  near 
her.  He  drew  a  chair  to  her  side. 

"Louis,  boy,  don't  move  away.  It's  all  right,"  said 
William.  To  Dorothy  he  murmured :  "I'll  just  tell  him 
how  it  arose.  .  .  .  Well,  Louis;  just  as  we  were  coming 
over  this  afternoon  a  man  came  up  and  stopped  me. 
Flisk.  Know  Flisk's?  Round  in  Station  Road.  He's 
got  a  small  shop  there — a  grocer's  shop.  Very  cramped 
for  room.  Now,  I've  seen  a  young  fellow  about  on  a 
bicycle,  calling  for  orders.  Most  of  the  orders  he  got 
were  from  my  customers.  Understand  what  I  mean? 
When  the  tide  set  against  me,  Flisk  took  the  trade.  He 
was  getting  it  all.  Well,  it  was  Flisk  who  stopped  me. 
I  took  him  upstairs — had  a  chat.  He  told  me  all  about 
his  business.  How  he  started,  and  what  his  profits  were, 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  805 

and  so  on.  And  he  told  me  the  big  jump  he'd  made  since 
Peel  went.  Finally  he  offered  to  buy  my  business.  Well, 
Louis,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  things  have  gone 
from  bad  to  worse  these  last  two  months.  I  never  knew 
a  business  tumble  down  so  quickly.  The  only  big  account 
we'd  kept  in  the  whole  place  was  your  mother's.  She 
never  deserted  us.  .  .  ." 

"Good  mother,"  agreed  Louis. 

"That  was  the  only  one.  All  the  others — piff.  Closed 
down  or  starved.  Very  well.  What's  the  outlook? 
Nil !  The  takings  have  been  smaller  this  week  than  ever. 
Flisk  told  me  that  he'd  been  told  by  half-a-dozen  people 
that  nobody  was  going  to  deal  with  me.  I'd  lost  it  for 
good.  Well,  whether  that's  true  or  not  makes  no  matter. 
It  looks  like  it.  He  offered  to  buy  the  business  .  .  ." 

"I  hope  you  won't  sell,"  cried  Louis  impulsively. 

"He  offered  to  buy  it  for  less  than  I  paid;  but  about 
fifty  times  more  than  I  should  get  on  the  present  turn- 
over. He'd  take  over  the  shop  and  the  stock  immedi- 
ately. .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Dad !"  cried  Dorothy. 

"I  haven't  closed.  I  wouldn't,  without  talking  it  over 
with  Mum  here.  But  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  sell.  I'm  going  back  to  run  my  own  shop 
in  Holloway,  where  I'm  known  and  where  I  can  make 
my  business  pay.  I'm  not  a  young  man,  and  I've  got 
nothing  to  fight  for  except  peace  and  quiet.  I've  had  just 
about  enough  of  Beckwith,  Louis;  and  my  own  opinion 
is  that  it's  best  to  cut  the  loss  and  make  the  best  of  a 
bad  bargain.  We'll  see  what  Mum  says.  That's  what 
/  say." 

Dorothy  and  Louis  looked  mutely  at  each  other.  Dor- 
othy's first  personal  thought,  after  a  general  excitement 
and  response  to  William's  candid  statement,  was:  "We 
shall  go.  ...  He'll  come  once  or  twice  .  .  .  and  then, 


306  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

never.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it's  better :  oh,  perhaps  it's  better !" 


VI 

There  seemed  nothing  else.  Mrs.  William  moved 
resolutely  forward  in  her  chair,  perfectly  conscious  of 
William's  excitement,  and  determined  to  know  the  reason 
of  it.  In  her  concern  she  once  addressed  Mrs.  Vechantor 
as  "ma'am."  That  was  her  one  lapse  from  propriety 
during  the  whole  afternoon.  Otherwise  she  had  been 
perfect.  Reg.  was  already  upon  his  feet.  William,  put- 
ting down  his  tea-cup,  apologised  to  Mrs.  Vechantor,  both 
for  his  lateness  and  for  his  early  departure. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  explained,  "Mum  here  won't  be  happy 
till  she  gets  home  and  has  the  whole  story.  She's  got  the 
fidgets  now,  as  you  can  see.  .  .  ." 

All  rose,  and  Reg.  was  first  out  of  the  room. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  Dorothy  stay  ...  I  wish  you'd 
stay,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Vechantor.  "Wouldn't  she  stop  to 
dinner?  Need  she  come  now?"  To  Dorothy  she  added, 
with  an  appealing  air  that  was  delightfully  refreshing: 
"We'd  take  great  care  of  you,  and  .  .  .  But  I  haven't 
heard  any  music  for  months,  and  I  want  you  to  play  a 
little.  And,  besides,  I  don't  want  to  lose  you.  .  .  ." 

Dorothy,  as  red  as  a  rose  at  such  kindness,  could  think 
only  in  terms  of  gratitude.  So  she  stayed,  with  a  brim- 
ming heart  and  great  tender  eyes  that  made  her  mother 
think  of  a  little  girl,  years  before,  who  had  been  her 
mother's  darling,  and  who  had  never  ceased  to  be  that, 
in  spite  of  her  maturity  and  the  passage  of  time. 


CHAPTER  XXIV:  SUNDAY  NIGHT 


THE  dinner  that  followed  was  for  Dorothy  an  excit- 
ing experience.  She  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a 
table.  Round  a  display  of  flowers  which  could  only 
have  been  grown  in  perfect  hothouses,  the  parlourmaid, 
who  had  a  natural  talent  for  floral  decoration,  had  laid 
exquisitely-coloured  berries  and  small  leaves  in  a  pattern. 
The  silver  shone  brilliantly.  Candles  reflected  the  light 
downward  and  created  a  thousand  soft  sparkling  glim- 
merings wherever  it  caught  and  enhanced  the  glow  of 
metal  or  china.  Above  the  table  was  a  mellow  darkness, 
unpierced  by  any  vehement  ray.  All  was  harmonious. 
The  sound  of  Rosemary's  dress  was  the  faintest  rustle. 
Stillness  was  everywhere.  Dorothy  was  in  a  dream  at 
all  the  loveliness  she  felt  and  saw  in  this  delightful  room. 
But  her  dream  was  not  wholly  happy,  because  it  forced 
into  her  mind  the  contrast  between  Louis's  home  and  her 
own.  The  William  Vechantors,  although  happy  and 
vigorous,  had  less  refinement  than  this;  and  to  Dorothy, 
who  was  naturally  refined,  but  whose  taste  was  bounded 
by  her  experience  of  the  possibilities  of  such  craft  in 
display,  the  scheme  of  Apple  House,  so  delicate  and  so 
assured,  came  as  something  of  a  blow.  How  was  it  pos- 
sible, she  thought,  that  Louis,  who  had  been  in  her  home, 
could  ever  imagine  that  she,  given  opportunity,  could  have 
made  a  home  as  perfectly  ordered  as  this?  She  could 
not  have  made  it.  The  knowledge  pressed  upon  her 

307 


308  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

heart.  There  was  so  much  that  she  had  never  taken  into 
account.  She  had  thought  love  was  enough ;  but  love  was 
only  a  sort  of  child's  nonsense  as  soon  as  one  came  into 
touch  with  the  realities  of  such  things  as  these.  It  had 
always  been  impossible  to  think  of  herself  as  living  at 
home  with  Louis.  Only  now  did  she  realise  it.  She  real- 
ised again,  as  she  had  realised  that  other  day,  that  her 
thoughts  of  him  had  been  the  thoughts  of  an  inexperi- 
enced girl.  Every  sparkle  that  caught  her  eye  quickened 
Dorothy's  sense  of  this.  Deeply  moved,  she  became  timid, 
ashamed;  a  sense  of  failure,  of  ignorance,  weighed  her 
down.  She  was  so  easily  affected  by  external  surround- 
ings, and  so  quickly  aware  of  whatever  was  maculate  in 
herself,  that  she  had  not  even  the  curiosity  which  a  more 
stubborn  gir!  would  have  brought  to  the  examination  of 
the  meal  and  its  adornment. 

And  then,  while  she  was  still  struggling  with  her  too- 
painful  sensations,  Dorothy  looked  at  Mrs.  Vechantor, 
who  was  so  beautiful  and  so  much  at  ease  amid  the  sur- 
roundings of  her  peaceful  home.  Mrs.  Vechantor  was 
smiling  at  her  with  so  much  affection  that  Dorothy,  for 
shame,  grew  bewildered.  Her  eyes  fled  miserably  before 
such  kindness.  And  in  that  moment  she  had  the  strange 
thrilling  emotion  that  comes  from  a  subtle  knowledge. 
She  felt  that  they  all  liked  her,  that  they  were  all  ... 
somehow,  and  without  obtrusiveness,  treating  her  as  quite 
perfectly  one  of  themselves.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Mr.  Vechantor's  approval  of  herself.  He  had  noticed  her 
pretty  hands,  and  the  almost  frightened  inquiry  that  was 
shown  in  her  mouselike  silence.  At  Louis  Dorothy  dared 
not  look.  He  was  opposite  to  her — fortunately  behind  the 
spreading  flowers,  so  that  she  was  blessedly  hidden.  She 
was  hidden,  and  in  all  this  quietness  her  heart  was  beating 
as  if  it  would  never  stop.  A  strange  exultancy  came  into 
Dorothy's  heart.  It  was  like  a  mysterious  response  to  a 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  309 

rising  ecstasy  of  understanding.    The  spirit  that  pervaded 
this  silence  was  understanding.  .  .  . 

All  her  fear  gave  way  before  a  tide  of  unbelievable 
happiness.  Her  pale  face  flushed.  She  found  herself 
talking  quickly,  eagerly,  naturally.  They  were  all  so 
kind.  She  could  not  feel  afraid  of  them.  They  were 
wiser  and  better  than  she;  but  because  of  the  beauty  of 
their  souls  they  bridged  the  distances  by  which  they  were 
separated  from  her.  Magically,  they  loved  her.  She  was 
alight  with  gratitude  and  shy  answering  love.  She  was 
not  Dorothy,  not  the  girl  who  had  been  afraid ;  she  was 
somebody  in  a  fairy  dream,  a  Cinderella  with  midnight 
far  distant,  enjoyingly  aware  of  her  good  fortune.  She 
was,  for  this  little  time,  as  she  snatched  at  the  pride  of 
this  tremendous  hour,  a  princess,  transformed — as  beau- 
tiful as  they.  Such  trembling  happiness  Dorothy  had 
never  known.  She  was  carried  upon  the  wings  of  her 
fancy,  up  and  up  to  unwonted  heights  of  achievement. 
Not  hers  to  doubt  for  this  evening.  She  was  happy.  She 
was  liberated,  a  bird  carried  upon  the  blessed  winds  of 
love,  right  into  the  ecstasy  of  happiness. 


n 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Dorothy  played  well  that  night. 
She  played  with  all  her  heart.  She  played  only  those 
things  that  had  a  sweet  meaning  for  herself ;  and  as  she 
played  her  eyes  were  alight  with  this  new  happiness  that 
had  made  her  a  queen.  She  did  not  think  of  her  play- 
ing; all  she  did  was  to  make  those  who  listened  feel  as 
she  herself  felt.  It  seemed  as  though  she  could  never  be 
tired,  as  though  the  piano  sang  to  her.  All  its  hardness 
melted ;  its  cadences  were  as  tender  as  the  cadences  of  a 
magic  harp.  If  Dorothy  was  transfigured,  so  was  her 
instrument ;  and  Mrs.  Vechantor.  listening  with  such  in- 


310  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

tentness,  knew  that  it  was  Dorothy  who  sang  when  the 
music  sang.  They  all  three  sat  with  perfect  attention, 
so  that  it  would  in  any  case  have  been  a  pleasure  to  play. 
Upon  such  a  night  it  was  a  happiness  almost  unbearable 
in  its  sweetness.  Dorothy  would  never  forget  it:  she 
had  never  been  so  happy. 

Exulting  still,  she  afterwards  sat  and  talked  to  Mrs. 
Vechantor,  vivid  with  this  secret  joy  in  their  kindness, 
in  their  love  for  her.  The  world  was  wholly  changed.  It 
had  become  beautiful  as  they  were  beautiful.  She  was 
standing  upon  tiptoe,  bountifully  bestowing  her  love  upon 
the  immeasurable  world.  Life  was  different.  She  was 
drunken  with  a  sense  of  its  difference,  its  new  simplicity. 
It  was  like  the  Spring,  opening  the  treasures  of  the  earth 
to  her  adventurous  command.  The  unhappiness,  the 
miseries  she  had  known  were  shrunken,  like  candles  be- 
fore the  dawn.  She  was  alive,  tingling  with  new-found 
knowledge.  It  was  all  a  part  of  this  fairy  gold  of  love. 

iii 

At  parting  she  was  trembling  with  her  heightened  emo- 
tion, her  cheeks  bright;  a  new  curve  in  the  soft  contour 
of  her  face.  She  was  soft  as  a  little  bird  in  Mrs.  Vechan- 
tor's  quick  embrace.  And  when  Louis  and  she  were  out- 
of-doors  in  the  melting  whiteness  of  the  moonlight  she 
trembled  still,  looking  up  at  the  moon's  face  with  an 
exulting  gravity  that  had  no  place  in  any  memory  of  the 
past.  The  moon  was  so  clear  that  every  part  of  the 
garden  was  black  or  silver,  frozen  and  beautified  by  the 
clear  radiance.  The  night  was  still.  They  could  hear 
nothing  but  the  sound  of  their  own  footsteps.  Upon  the 
common  there  was  only  the  sense  of  this  one  sheet  of  un- 
relieved quicksilver.  The  houses  were  picked  out  so 
sharply  that  they  stood  out  in  definite  lines  against 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  311 

the  sky.  The  black  trees,  motionless,  were  webs  and 
traceries  more  precious  than  any  Dorothy  had  ever 
seen.  How  silent,  how  full  of  emotion  was  everything 
about  them.  The  town  was  asleep,  dreaming.  It  was  a 
fairyland. 

Slowly  that  mood  changed.  She  was  walking  beside 
Louis  in  that  wonderful  world ;  and  she  could  see  him  and 
hear  his  steps.  She  had  an  extraordinary  desire  that  he 
should  touch  her,  that  he  should  take  her  hand.  She  did 
not  want  him  to  speak.  She  wanted  nothing  but  the 
knowledge  that  he  loved  her  as  she  loved  him.  It  was  a 
knowledge  given  best,  not  in  words,  but  in  a  single  glance, 
when  for  once  they  should  have  no  veil  between  their 
two  hearts.  She  wanted  nothing.  All  was  precious  and 
wonderful  to  her,  and  her  trembling  hesitation  only  the 
fear  that  the  spell  should  be  broken.  If  it  failed  for  one 
moment,  she  felt  that  her  heart  must  break. 

Louis  took  her  hand.  He  stooped  a  little  and  held  it, 
and  drew  it  under  his  arm,  bending  towards  her.  Both 
were  trembling,  but  not  with  unhappiness. 

"Funny  .  .  .  I've  wanted  to  say  it  all  the  evening," 
he  stammered,  in  a  thick  voice.  "Isn't  it  funny  that  I 
can't  say  it.  .  .  ."  He  was  laughing  a  little,  trying  to 
speak  naturally,  and  afraid  to  speak  at  all.  Dorothy 
felt  her  heart  leap,  and  then  suddenly  flutter  in  her  throat. 

"I  knew  ...  I  knew  ,  .  ."  she  began,  the  word  long 
and  thrilling,  as  a  mother  speaks  to  her  baby. 

Louis  took  both  her  hands  and  slowly  kissed  them; 
and  she  was  gently  in  his  arms,  and  happy,  laughing  with 
a  kind  of  nonsensical  laughter  at  his  trembling  awkward- 
ness and  her  own  sense  of  something  that  was  greater 
than  joy,  greater  than  happiness.  They  stood  embraced, 
eyes  reading  eyes,  eyes  giving  messages  of  love  and  trust, 
both  suddenly  serious  and  passionate. 


SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 


v 

Without  meaning  to  do  so,  and  quite  unaware  of  the 
direction  of  their  steps,  they  went  beyond  the  edge  of  the 
common  and  down  a  winding  lane  that  led  to  the  east. 
They  now  seemed  so  remote  from  the  world  in  that  starry 
night  that  neither  took  account  of  time  or  place.  It  was 
enough  that  they  were  happy  and  together.  For  a  little 
while  they  were  silent,  until  their  feelings  surged  up  into 
a  bubbling  of  desire  to  talk  and  to  exclaim  aloud  their 
rapture  and  their  naive  amazement  at  the  simplicity  of 
every  aspect  of  life. 

"Until  this  evening,"  Dorothy  said  at  last,  "I  didn't  see 
how  you  could  possibly  love  me.  And  yet  that's  not  true. 
I  see  it  isn't  true.  I  always  believed  it.  I  was  unhappy, 
and  doubting;  but  I  couldn't  ever  lose  the  stealthy  hope 
...  I  hoped  and  hoped.  .  .  .  And  then  whenever  I  woke 
up  I  got  discouraged,  and  saw  there  was  so  much  that 
might  keep  you  from  loving  me.  I  feel  .  .  .  Oh,  Louis, 
I  feel  so  ignorant;  such  a  common  girl,  in  a  way.  .  .  . 
Not  common,  but  poor.  As  though  .  .  ." 

"Ah;  but  Dorothy  .  .  .  There  are  such  thousands  of 
things  to  tell.  Things  for  you  to  forgive  .  .  ." 

"Forgive!"  she  cried,  exultingly  incredulous.  "As  if 
I  should  believe  that,  my  dearest." 

They  both  laughed  a  little,  close  together  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  Dorothy's  breast  against  Louis's  arm,  so  that 
they  seemed  to  be  walking  together  out  into  the  unknown 
distances. 

"Nevertheless,"  Louis  went  on,  "1  should  like  to  tell 
you  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  all  there  is  to  tell.  About, 
for  one  thing,  Veronica.  Ah,  you  don't  mind  her  name 
now  !" 

"Not  now  !"  Dorothy  agreed,  with  a  sublime  conscious- 
ness of  pity. 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  313 

"You  did  this  morning.  You  were  jealous  of  her  this 
morning.  And  I  was  frightened  of  you." 

"Hoo !    What  nonsense !" 

"Terrified.  And  I  must  tell  you  that  .  .  .  ever  such  a 
little  while  ago  I  was  trying  to  persuade  myself  that  I 
was  in  love  with  her.  I  didn't  succeed — don't  ever  think 
that  .  .  ." 

Dorothy  had  a  sharp  pang.  Her  pity  for  Veronica 
became  a  poignant  reality ;  not  the  lazy  complacent  con- 
tempt she  had  felt  at  first.  She  thought  suddenly  of 
Veronica  standing  before  Miss  Lampe.  But  she  was 
merciful.  It  was  no  jealous  self-love  that  kept  her  from 
revealing  Veronica's  secret.  It  was  a  treasure  of  kindness 
that  kept  the  truth  unspoken. 

"Louis  ...  I  know  you  love  me,"  she  said  quietly. 
"I  feel  it.  ...  You  needn't  tell  me  about  Veronica.  I 
know  it  better  than  you  could  tell  .  .  ." 

"Not  the  truth,  my  dear.  I'd  like  you  to  hear  that; 
because  I  want  to  feel  that  I've  told  you.  You  needn't 
listen  .  .  ." 

"Silly!"  said  Dorothy;  and  listened  to  his  voice,  and 
not  to  his  words,  because  she  was  in  love  with  him,  and 
thinking  about  the  marvel  of  it.  So  they  both  had  their 
satisfaction,  and  Dorothy  never  knew  about  Veronica.  In 
this  she  proved  herself  wise  and  odd,  quite  unlike  other 
girls,  as  in  many  respects  she  was. 

The  short  recital  of  Louis's  affair  with  Veronica  was 
quickly  ended ;  and  they  were  once  more  in  perfect  com- 
munion of  spirit.  They  went  on  along  the  winding  lane, 
and  stopped  and  hesitated  about  turning  or  going  farther. 
It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock;  and  to  be  abroad  at  that 
hour  in  Beckwith  is  unusual.  They  were  about  to  turn, 
therefore,  when,  close  beside  them,  at  the  other  side  of 
the  hedge,  they  heard  a  quick  fluttering,  a  little  gasp,  and 
the  sound  of  a  kiss.  Instinctively,  Louis  held  Dorothy 


314  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

more  tightly,  in  case  she  should  be  alarmed,  and  cry  out ; 
but  she  was  perfectly  still,  secure  in  his  nearness.  And 
then  came  a  smothered  voice,  saying:  "My  God!  Vera, 
you  madden  me.  You  must  tell  me." 

A  shock  ran  through  both.  Both  moved  away,  ashamed 
and  embarrassed.  They  heard  Veronica's  voice,  very 
clear  in  the  silent  night,  say  breathlessly :  "Don't  be  an 
idiot.  Of  course  I  will.  I  want  to  be  married  soon.  .  .  . 
Soon."  There  was  another  kiss.  Dorothy  and  Louis,  still 
moving  away  from  that  place,  hastened  their  steps,  tread- 
ing like  mice  along  the  soft  roadway.  Both  had  grown 
suddenly  pale,  both  were  agitated — not  at  peace,  as  they 
had  been  together,  but  miserably  excited  at  this  unwel- 
come eavesdropping.  When  they  were  at  some  distance 
Dorothy,  scourged  by  the  knowledge  which  she  alone 
had  of  Veronica's  real  secret,  chilled  with  horror  of  the 
meaning  of  the  words  they  had  both  overheard,  whis- 
pered : 

"Oh,  Louis!    Who  was  it?" 

"Dumaresque,"  he  said  briefly. 


They  walked  quickly  now,  both  feeling  quite  different, 
anxious  only  for  the  parting,  since  the  first  bloom  of  their 
joy  had  been  spoiled  by  contact  with  a  love-scene  so  un- 
like their  own,  to  which  each  in  private  had  an  uncom- 
fortable key. 

"Louis  dear,"  Dorothy  suddenly  said.  "When  we're 
married  .  .  .  let's  go  right  away  from  Beckwith  to  live. 
It's  hateful.  I  couldn't  bear  .  .  .  I've  got  a  dread  of 
it  .  .  ." 

He  pressed  her  arm,  hearing  the  quiver  in  her  voice. 

"In  London  ?"  he  asked.  "I  don't  like  living  in  grime. 
Do  you?" 

"No." 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  315 

"We'll  go  somewhere  that's  like  Beckwith.  But  that 
isn't  Beckwith.  That's  different  from  Beckwith  .  .  ." 
He  was  earnestly  coaxing. 

Dorothy  was  silent  for  quite  a  long  time.  Before  she 
spoke  they  had  almost  reached  the  moon-drowned 
common. 

"I've  been  thinking,  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  as  though 
she  were  rather  unwilling  to  speak.  "I've  been  thinking 
whether  perhaps  Beckwith  .  .  .  that  it  isn't  altogether  a 
place  at  all.  I  mean,  whether  it  isn't  a  sort  of  disease. 
If  you  live  in  London  you  hardly  know  your  neighbours 
— one  on  the  right,  one  on  the  left.  We  did,  in  Holloway. 
And  no  more.  You  have  your  own  friends.  Nobody 
else  cares  twopence  about  you.  .  .  .  That's  in  London. 
But  London  isn't  England.  I've  been  wondering  if, 
directly  you  go  to  England  to  live,  you  don't  find  Beck- 
with. Dear,  I  don't  want  to  be  cruel.  I'm  not  cruel.  But 
I  can't  think  of  this  place — this  dear,  lovely  place — as 
making  its  own  people.  Aren't  people  everywhere  alike  ? 
This  is  what  I  thought :  isn't  Beckwith  any  small  town  in 
England  ?  Isn't  the  choice  between  London — that's  heart- 
less— an(l  Beckwith  where  your  life's  everybody's  busi- 
ness? If  you  have  to  choose,  what  will  you  choose? 
Louis  dear  .  .  ." 

Louis  listened  in  silence  to  her  painful  speech,  made 
shrinkingly,  and  with  many  pauses;  but  full  of  the  can- 
dour that  made  him  love  her  with  all  his  heart. 

"Oh,  London !"  he  cried  suddenly.  "London,  for  God's 
sake!" 

They  stood  then  upon  the  edge  of  the  common,  looking 
over  its  clear  expanse,  at  the  houses  and  the  little  shops 
that  fringed  its  borders.  Beckwith  was  asleep,  and  these 
two  lovers,  standing  in  the  moonlight,  linked  for  ever 
in  a  common  sympathy,  observed  how  still  it  lay  in  the 
peace  of  that  wonderful  night  of  stars  and  clear  air. 


316  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

"Lovely  Beckwith,"  Dorothy  said  tenderly.  Then, 
with  a  slight  shudder,  as  if  the  wind  had  become  chill,  she 
added  in  a  low  voice:  "Poor  .  .  .  poor  people  .  .  . 
Shut  up  in  their  houses  and  their  shops,  and  never  seeing 
outside  .  .  ."  Turning  to  Louis  she  raised  her  hands  to 
his  breast  and  was  held  close  to  his  heart.  "My  dearest !" 
she  went  on  soberly :  "You  mustn't  think  I'm  so  cruel. 
I  hope  you  won't.  I'm  not  cruel.  But  I  think  I  hate 
stupidity  worse  than  anything  on  earth,  because  it  fright- 
ens me  and  crushes  me  .  ." 


EPILOGUE 

A  MONTH  later  Mrs.  Jebolt  and  Mrs.  Callum  were 
having  tea  with  Miss  Lampe  in  the  little  house 
near  Beckwith  railway  station.  They  had  just  seen  Mr. 
Chator,  a  very  old  gentleman  of  the  neighbourhood, 
hobble  by  the  house  to  catch  the  quarter-past  four  train. 
He  was  going  to  London,  they  knew,  because  a  dispute 
had  arisen  over  a  deed,  and  Mr.  Chator  was  going  to 
see  his  lawyer  at  five  o'clock  and  was  then  going  on  to 
the  home  of  his  married  daughter,  who  lived  at  Wands- 
worth  Common  and  had  as  many  as  six  children. 

The  three  ladies  were  sipping  their  tea  with  relish,  and 
they  had  all  agreed  that  the  Spring  weather  was  promising 
finely  for  the  year.  Already  they  had  made  each  other 
sundry  communications  of  a  parochial  character,  when 
Mrs.  Callum  said: 

"Do  you  know  Nurse  Clara-Smith?" 

Mrs.  Jebolt  did  not. 

"She's  such  a  nice  woman,"  said  both  Miss  Lampe  and 
Mrs.  Callum.    Miss  Lampe  added :    "She's  what  I  call  a 
really  nice  woman.     So  good  and  kind.  ...  To  every-  N 
body,  without  exception." 

"Of  course,  I've  heard  of  her,  and  seen  her,"  Mrs. 
Jebolt  hastened  to  assert.  "I  only  meant  .  .  ." 

"Oh  yes.  ...  Of  course,  everybody  knows  of  her. 
She's  been  attending  a  maternity  case  in  the  town  ...  a 
Mrs.  Cupples.  .  .  .  She  lives  in  one  of  Mr.  Ashton's 
houses  in  the  Maple  Road.  She's  not  a  member  of  our 

317 


318  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

church.  You  wouldn't  know  her.  A  most  interesting 
case,  Nurse  Clara-Smith  was  saying  .  .  ." 

Some  details  were  given,  of  an  intimate  character,  much 
relished  by  all,  particularly  by  Miss  Lampe. 

"I  think  it's  such  a  pity  Louis  Vechantor  married  his 
cousin,"  said  Miss  Lampe,  following  the  course  of  the 
conversation.  "You  know,  I  think  it's  positively  sinful 
for  cousins  to  marry.  The  children  are  always  born 
blind,  or  deaf-and-dumb.  It's  wicked!" 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Jebolt.  "It's  only  first  cousins  that 
there's  a  danger  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  it  was  all.  Really  .  .  .  really  .  .  ."  said 
Miss  Lampe,  nodding  and  opening  her  eyes.  "They're 
not  first  cousins,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  it's  very,  very  dan- 
gerous, I'm  afraid  .  .  ." 

"It's  not  only  deafness,"  pursued  Mrs.  Callum.  "Not 
only  deafness,  by  any  means.  .  .  .  Now  you  know  the 
Toppetts  are  related  ..." 

"Indeed!"  cried  Mrs.  Jebolt,  greatly  interested.  "I 
never  knew  that.  O — oh,  it  explains  such  a  lot !" 

"Oh  yes.  She  was  a  Miss  Tebbs,  and  she  lived  with 
her  aunt  at  Earls  wood.  ...  Mr.  Toppett  is  the  son  of 
her  aunt's  first  cousin.  .  .  .  But  I  didn't  think,"  Miss 
Lampe  ventured,  "that  the  aunt  was  more  than  an  aunt 
by  marriage.  .  .  .  No,  I  didn't  think  so." 

"Well,  anyway,  Nurse  Clara-Smith  says  all  those  Top- 
pet  children  were  born  .  .  ." 

All  the  ladies  were  horror-struck  at  the  revelation. 

"It  just  shows!"  cried  Mrs.  Jebolt.  "I  was  always 
sure  there  was  something  the  matter  with  the  youngest 
one.  You  know,  of  course,  that  Mrs.  Toppett's  going  to 
have  another?  What  that  poor  woman  will  be  like  in 
five  years'  time  I  can't  think  .  .  ."  They  shook  their 
heads  in  concert. 


EPILOGUE  S19 

"When  is  Vera  going  to  be  married?"  asked  Mrs.  Cal- 
lum.  "You  were  going  to  find  out." 

"Ah  yes  ...  Some  time  in  June  .  .  ."  Miss  Lampe 
said.  "It's  really  .  .  .  Mind,  this  is  quite  private; 
but  that  Hughes  family  ...  It  would  be  comical  if  it 
weren't  so  tragic.  Really,  it's  tragic.  He-he-he !"  She 
tittered  from  nervousness,  not  from  spite.  "You  see  they 
all  thought  he  would  marry  Judith;  and  the  poor  girl's 
let  her  feelings  .  .  .  She's  jealous  of  dear  Vera.  But 
you  see  Vera  .  .  .  and,  well,  Louis  Vechantor.  .  .  .  And 
I  rather  think  it  was  the  same  with  Adela,  who's  such  a 
sweet  good  girl.  I  rather  think  it  was.  I  thought  so 
when  the  news  of  the  wedding  came.  I'm  afraid  they're 
all  very  unhappy.  Truly,  I  am.  They're  so  spiteful  to 
one  another  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  Vera  doesn't  want  Mr. 
Dumaresque  at  all." 

"There's  one  thing,  he's  got  plenty  of  money,"  as- 
serted Mrs.  Callum.  "You'll  find  they'll  settle  down  all 
right.  Once  Vera's  got  a  house  and  servants  .  .  .  She'll 
soon  forget  her  little  fancies.  It'll  do  her  good." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  agreed  Miss  Lampe.  "I  quite  agree. 
Quite.  But  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  girl  catching  Louis, 
everything  would  have  been  different.  Everybody  would 
have  been  happier  .  .  .  Excepting  Adela,  of  course  .  .  . 
Excepting  Adela,  poor  thing!  And  I'm  not  ...  I 
know  it's  wrong  of  me  to  say  it.  I  know  it  is  .  .  ."  She 
lowered  her  voice.  "I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  don't  think 
she  had  been  living  with  him  in  London.  She's  a  very 
.  .  .  such  a  bold,  daring  girl.  Very  fast,  I  thought. 
That  sort  of  girl  doesn't  see  any  harm  in  it,  nowadays. 
You  see,  they  were  seen  .  .  .  Vera  saw  them  .  .  .  Saw 
him  carrying  a  portmanteau,  I  believe  .  .  ." 

"Ph.  Vera!"  cried  Mrs.  Jebolt.  "No,  I  don't 
believe  that  at  all.  Vera  would  say  anything  about 
her  .  ." 


320  SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

Momentarily  defeated,  Miss  Lampe  paused. 

"Well,  of  course,  I  must  say  that  I  don't  think  she  was 
at  all  a  nice  girl.  She  used  language  to  me  that  I  never 
expected  to  hear  any  girl  use.  .  .  .  Did  you  know  she 
called  me  a  ...  a  lady-dog  ?" 

"No!"  Mrs.  Jebolt  was  scandalised.  "A  girl  to  say 
a  thing  like  that !  Oh,  Miss  Lampe !  How  awful!" 

"Extraordinary!"  cried  Mrs.  Callum.  "Extraordinary! 
I  think  it  must  have  been  some  other  word." 

"No,  no.  A  lady-dog.  I  heard  her.  Indeed  she  did. 
Oh,  a  wicked  girl!  I  could  believe  anything  of  her.  I 
hate  to  believe  anything  evil  of  anybody.  I  do.  I  do.  .  .  . 
It  makes  me  quite  unhappy  .  .  .  Just  as  I  feel  about  Mrs. 
Green's  maid.  Dreadful,  isn't  it!  She  seemed  such  a 
nice  girl.  .  .  .  She  used  to  be  in  my  Bible  class.  .  .  . 
But  I'm  really  glad,"  said  Miss  Lampe  impressively; 
"I'm  really  glad  those  people  have  left  Beckwith.  It's  a 
relief  to  get  back  to  just  ourselves  once  more  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  others.  Mrs.  Callum  went  on :  "It's 
a  real  relief.  They  were  unsettling.  Of  course,  they 
meant  to  be.  They  came  here  with  that  idea.  It  was  so 
stupid  of  them  not  to  see  that  of  course  we  should  stand 
by  the  Vechantors.  And  it's  such  a  puzzle  to  me  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Vechantor  don't  seem  to  see  through  it.  You 
daren't  say  anything  to  Mrs.  Vechantor  about  it.  Or 
about  them." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Lampe.  "I  tried  once.  Never  again. 
Oh,  no.  ...  Of  course,  my  dears,  she's  getting  old. 
Yes,  getting  old.  .  .  .  She  isn't  what  she  was.  But  at 
least  they've  gone.  It's  such  a  comfort.  While  they  were 
here  I  felt  all  the  time  that  they  were  spoiling  our  little 
Cranford.  I  did,  really!  It's  such  a  relief  now  they're 
gone,  and  we're  settled  down  again.  They  weren't  at  all 
what  I  call  really  nice  people." 

THE    END 


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